


Negotiation

by rev02a



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alpha Aziraphale (Good Omens), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of neglect/abuse, F/F, F/M, I blame COVID, M/M, Omega Crowley (Good Omens), Omega Verse, Other, Regency Romance, Sex, Social Commentary, What Have I Done, and alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 191,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28543623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev02a/pseuds/rev02a
Summary: Gossip says that Lady Burningstone's gambling debts amass. Now she needs a less traditional (and possibly illegal) way to resolve her fortunes.Meanwhile, Lord Aziraphale, son of the late Marquess of Fellthrop, is injured in the Great War. No family would willingly mate their Omega child with a sterile Alpha--except Lady Burningstone, it seems.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/War, Dagon/Famine, Gabriel/Uriel, Harriet Dowling/Thaddeus J. Dowling, Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Lucifer/Pollution, Michael/Sandalphon, Usher/Nun
Comments: 419
Kudos: 252





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It would be neat if I could finish a story without running away with another plot. Once again, here we are with 43,000 words written to a Regency Omegaverse bodice ripper--I'm ashamed. I've written something for all my WIPs, so don't worry! Posts will come soon.
> 
> I hope you're all caring for yourselves and staying safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read my other work, then you know that I love to world build, even within existing settings.
> 
> I didn't want an Omegaverse that looks like others, so I tried to take certain elements and twist them. I also wanted to ensure this was more social commentary than pure porn.
> 
> \- Mating marks exist as scars but are often renewed  
> \- I am using historic details, including marriage licenses--however, in this universe, an aristocracy wedding includes piercing the right ear of an Omega at the altar  
> \- Omegas are born with birthmarks that denotes their secondary gender; no one else has them  
> \- Scent glands are on people's wrists and are covered by "scent cuffs" which look something like a dainty version of a 1980s tennis wrist sweatband  
> \- Most of the laws referenced about Omegas owning property/being their own human are based on the roles of women in this time period-- and, yeah, I've overdone the research again

The Great War was something to discuss in polite company. Not the battles or the gore, of course, but the great patriotism of the thing. Each of their nation’s victories were worthy of dioramas (to some of the nobility anyway, others thought such miniatures were a waste of time), which were then examined during luncheons. These figurines were further moved as field reports reached home and the tiny battles memorialized. 

Yet the war drug on. More troops were required.

Lady Burningstone, or the Dame Jayanthony, had to send her own Omega husband. People talked of course. An Omega sent to war? Then again, Lady Burningstone’s tenacity in business and at the card table was already well known. No doubt she saw herself more necessary at home than abroad.

Still, people worried about how the mated bond would hold Omega Lord Burningstone back. Would he be of any use in war? (Of course, Lady Burningstone had little concern. His value was fulfilled. He’d birthed her five strong Alpha children. She was proud of them: Lucifer, Beelzebub, Hastur, Dagon, and Usher.) Then others, the more astute and gossipy types suggested that it had little to do with “use” and more to do with “revenge”.

“These Alpha women,” some said, “just want to know what all the fuss is about. Serves her right for upsetting the natural order of things. She already had five children!”

Their companions would shake their heads and sip their tea, “It’s what she gets for asking an Omega to sire children. She should have thought of that.”

“It seems she did, only too late! He produced such sickly little Omegas that she packed him off to war!” some replied.

“It comes from too many novels and too much time,” their friends might say, sagely. “But then some families need Omega children, you know. To keep around and temper all that Alpha pheromone!”

The first might pour more tea and think about this, “Perhaps. But _twin_ Omegas? Isn’t that unlucky?”

And the Dame would say it were _very_ unlucky.

The twins, Crowley and Ashtoreth, were sickly—both had congenital spinal deformities and eye conditions. But worst of all, they were Omegas. That was apparent the moment she saw their Omega marks. Lady Burningstone was not of the opinion that homes needed such children. She did not see them as “porcelain dolls” as many did but as deadweight. She shuttered them away, an experiment gone wrong, and turned to games of Speculation.

“Hiding from her grief in the cards,” some said with a sad shake of their head. “Another bond destroyed by this war.”

“And the Omega Lord Burningstone died while those babes were only four months old, such bad luck!” others might say.

But most of the gossip centered on Lady Burningstone’s very short mourning period. She was back to the gaming tables within half a year of her husband’s death. Without his stewardship of the household finances, however, she ran up large debts. Tophet fell into disrepair. It was not a grand house, but large enough to accommodate the family. People talked about how the Dame was not like other Alphas in the peerage. Tophet was not her’s to preserve for the family, but hers to use to her will.

Thus, the budget was restricted. Fires were not lit in every room and the children were mostly left to their own devices. (The Dame was strict on certain aspects of propriety, however. While children could share beds to save on fuel, only the twins could stay in the same room after dark. The scandal that other families had between Alpha children in rut and their lesser Omega siblings would not happen under her roof.)

And so Ashtoreth and Crowley grew up in one another’s pockets, as twins can sometimes, sharing space both in the womb and in their bedroom. It was good that they had one another, for the Alpha children’s existence was different than their own. The other five had a schoolroom with map puzzles and Latin lessons. They learned about economics and civics. The twins learned needlepoint (a challenge with their sight) and drawing. They were accomplished but limited in their educations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History notes:  
> \- The Great War is probably with Napoleon, but those battles did not linger for as long as my fake war did  
> \- Battle dioramas really were a thing, as were play-by-play newspaper articles. The Battle of Waterloo was very famous and people knew how it went from one hour to the next.  
> \- Mourning periods were typically one year when the family would reduce their social calendar and wear "weeds" or all black. For the second (and sometimes third year), the family would wear gray and lavender. Social functions could increase, but major events like marriage were still mildly taboo.  
> -Tophet is the location in Jewish lore where children were sacrificed to the devil. Basically, the name of Crowley's childhood home is hell. Ha.


	2. Chapter 2

As the Jayanthony children grew, the Great War raged on. A forty minute’s hard ride from Tophet, the Marquess of Fellthrop prepared his second son, Lord Aziraphale Herald to enter the military someday.

“We set an example for those in our care,” Lord Fellthrop told his son as he helped Aziraphale adjust his scent cuffs. “We go to battle for our King and country.”

Aziraphale, ten at the time, did not yet need the scent cuffs as he had not reached puberty. Yet, even that young, he took his father’s words to heart and practiced his swordsmanship diligently. Sometimes the boy was jealous of his elder brother, the Earl, and heir, who had the option to spend his day in books instead.

“I would switch places with you in a heartbeat, sunshine,” Gabriel offered, his scent of warm leather wafting.

“Don’t call me that,” Aziraphale retorted with a childish whine.

“Why not, brother mine?” Gabriel teased as their little sister Michael ran into the room.

“Ladies do not run!” her nanny admonished as she raced in after the little Alpha.

Lord and Lady Fellthrop were singular in their household: three healthy Alpha children. They were loved and treasured even in the shadow of the war. Then the King called the Marquess to the battlefield.

“It’s my duty,” the Alpha said to his children and his scent did not reflect fear. “I do it with honor and pleasure.”

And he left to the war. Like so many, he did not return. The family mourned, heartbroken. Yet, his mate, Lady Fellthrop, was not the shirking sort of Omega. She fought through her grief to continue to raise her children and keep Zionview Grove safe for her grandchildren. She never remarried and continued to wear her wedding ring and earring. Meanwhile, her children grew.

Gabriel left for university and Aziraphale entered the Army. With his commission in the cavalry paid, Captain Herald led his men into the fray. His name became synonymous with victory and valor. At home, his family and friends proudly talked about his accomplishments. Until the Battle of the Host and then the gossip changed.

“The horse was shot right out from under him,” they said over sherries and cigars.

“What a shame. A good officer like that! They say he’s unable to sire pups now,” they said out of the earshot of the Omegas.

“Now that’s a loss for the Herald line and the future of Zionview Grove!”

“Ah, not really. Old Fellthrop had three Alphas; his heir is still virile. Getting married, I hear—or so my wife says,” the Alphas gossip.

And it’s so. Lord Aziraphale returns home. His leg is broken and he limps on cold days even once it heals. Depression hangs over him though.

“Brother mine,” his sister Michael soothes, “how can I help?”

“I don’t think that you can, my dear,” he admits as he fidgets with his waistcoat. “I had always hoped for pups of my own. I’d wanted to be a father.”

He withdrew for many years into the family’s library. His siblings would visit him and bring him the latest news.

“Lord Lucifer Jayanthony has taken a wife, Lady Blanc Chalky-Weiss,” Gabriel tells him one day, reading the society pages. His scent reflects a moment of surprise.

Aziraphale considers this over his spectacles, “I believe she is very young, is she not?”

Gabriel hums, “And with a large fortune.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” the Captain comments. His smile turns knowing and his scent teasingly sweet, “And speaking of romance: how is Lady Uriel?”

Gabriel huffs in mock annoyance and hides his face in his newspaper. “She is well.”

“And have you made your intention known yet?” he teases, leaning forward.

“She has accepted my first courting gift if that’s what you’re asking.”

Aziraphale grins and claps his brother’s shoulder. The room flairs with twin joyous scents. “Congratulations, brother mine!”

Some months later the Zionview Grove hosts Gabriel, the new the Marquess of Fellthrop, and Uriel’s wedding. It’s a grand affair with greenery draped over every surface of their home. Aziraphale fingers the ivy with one hand and holds his champagne flute with the other. He’s hiding on the balcony above the reception area in the saloon. He watches his brother and his new wife laugh and entertain. Uriel wears a lovely yellow gown, but Aziraphale’s eye is drawn to her right earlobe. It’s swollen with her traditional marriage piercing, but it sparkles gold in the daylight. Of course, Gabriel is one for style so bought her a wedding ring, which she also wears.

Aziraphale’s inner Alpha sulks. He could have a mate too and see him pierced at the altar. And then, of course, wear his mating mark on his neck from their wedding night on. He shakes himself and drinks his wine. These thoughts have left him out of sorts. He fidgets with the scent cuff on his left wrist. He’s feeling a strange mix of emotions and he worries that he’ll drench the cloth. It’s then that he hears two quiet voices.

“It seems,” a male voice draws, “that Beelzebub’s fortunes have changed. They’ve found a beta partner, Major Carmine Zingiber.”

“You don’t say,” a female voice replies, “read your letter aloud then and stop taunting me with these half-truths.”

“I’m not lying, Ash! All right, listen up, ‘Dearest brother,’. See? I told you that I’m their favorite.”

Aziraphale steps closer to the two voices and finds a pair of redheaded Omegas hiding in the shadowed hallway to the family’s rooms. They’re old enough to be in society, nearly so-called spinster age, yet Aziraphale has never seen them. They sit on the floor, wedding clothes neat even from this position. They’re identical from their slender scent-cuffed-wrists to their matching garments. They both wear dark, shaded glasses, although it appears that the girl is blind.

“Read the letter, Crowley!” the young woman says and shoves her brother.

The young man, Crowley, laughs, and lifts his letter. He shakes it dramatically so that the paper creases audibly. He clears his throat.

“Dearest brother, Forgive me lack of writing as the war has taken up much of my time. Thank you for the update on Usher’s graduation. I regret that I will not be able to attend as the Army has once again retracted my leave.”

Here the young woman sighs and her brother pats her hand. When she does, Crowley wiggles. It exposes his Omega mark, a dark birthmark squiggle across his right temple. It makes Aziraphale’s breath catch. It’s the more ornate natural Omega mark he’s ever seen. When it’s eventually paired with a wedding earring, his Alpha nature declares, he’ll turn everyone’s head.

“He did write to me about his intention of taking orders and courting Lady Mary Loquacious. I do not remember her, but her elder brother was my partner in many country balls. I wish him much luck in his love life, and so should you. He will need it.”

Crowley grins at his sister when she laughs. “They’re not wrong,” the young woman admits and they both titter in amusement.

“I myself am to be wed. Major Carmine Zingiber is a Beta in my sector and has agreed to be my partner. I will send word when the deed is done—please do not tell the Dame. You know how she likes to be the first to know news,” Crowley reads.

His sister sighs and shifts. “Well, I’m glad for them. Something positive had to come out of this blessed war.”

Aziraphale can’t help but raise his glass as if this was a toast. The movement, however, catches the light just right and it reflects from his champagne flute and into the hallway. Crowley startles and jumps to his feet.

“Oh, my dears, I’m so sorry, please forgive my intrusion,” Aziraphale laments. “I was only trying to avoid the crowd!”

He lets his words break off when he sees Crowley tug his sister to her feet and both of them avoid his eye. Oh yes, Omegas not yet in society.

Aziraphale clears his throat, “Forgive my impropriety again. I see you’re not yet presented in society. I will take my leave.” He bows low and they each curtsy, still without making eye contact.

Aziraphale hurries away, his pear scent spiking with embarrassment and shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- Gabriel, Michael, and Aziraphale all get along because no one is breaking tradition or stepping out of line. We know from canon that Aziraphale loved Earth and humanity--he went native and found that life is a more grey area than dogma. As Aziraphale follows orders to join the military and later court a mate, everything's hunky-dory at their house.  
> \- Zionview Grove is chosen as the Heaven house as "Zion" is another name for heaven, but that whole "view/grove" thing is so very Regency Era.  
> \- Peers could pay a set amount of money for their noble sons to become officers in the military. Apparently, too many stupid nobles got people killed because paying commissions stopped.  
> \- As the King was crazy and the Prince Regent did not want to deal with hours of females being "presented" to society, it became acceptable for an "on the marriage market" female to be introduced at grand parties or dances... any woman over twenty-one was basically a spinster and good for shipping off to a relative's house as a "governess"


	3. Chapter 3

Lady Burningstone’s household is smaller than it had been. Hastur is actively courting Lord Ligur of Dukesbrough, an Omega. Gossip suggests that he will be married and mated by spring. It’s good news as the title cannot pass to the Omega. The neighbors agree that it’s better for another peerage Alpha to take the title than to let it die out, even if it wasn’t the Jayanthony’s originally.

Additionally, Dagon asked the Omega Lord Raven Sable for three dances at the last ball, which has additional heads turning. With so much of her line settled, many expected the Dame to introduce her Omega twins into society. No one anticipates it doing any good, of course, as they have no dowries and the less said about their health the better. However, no effort toward their presentation is made. People shrug and make comments from behind their fans.

Crowley and Ashtoreth are twenty-four. The weather has changed to the crisp winter days that suggest the holidays are on the way. Today, however, promised to be unseasonably warm. Or so Crowley tells Ashtoreth as he helps lace up his sister’s stays. He hands her a bonnet.

“Where did you put your gloves?” he grumbles, hunting around her side of the bed.

“In the drawer, you git,” she retorts, tying the ribbon under her chin. “Are you even dressed yet? You’re fussing again.”

He huffs and hunts in the drawer at the bedside table. “I’m wearing clothes.”

“Are you dressed enough to go into Tadfield?” she asks, knowingly.

Crowley glances down at himself, clad only in trousers, and chuckles. “Not even remotely.”

“For somebody’s sake, brother,” Ashtoreth chides, “I’m not an invalid. Get dressed before Mother takes it out of both our hides.”

Crowley rushes past her, pausing only to shove her gloves into her hands. He grabs a collection of random clothes and Ashtoreth gives a dramatic sigh before sitting on the foot of their bed. This is usually how it goes, she knows. He will change at least thrice before they can leave.

He grabs his shift and tugs it over his head. It’s mid-length, as is appropriate for a male Omega. Their mother calls for them from the lower floor.

“Better hurry, brother,” Ashtoreth sing songs, teasingly.

Crowley glares at her and throws a sock at her. She smacks it away and giggles. The loss of her sight has been devastating, yes, but she also knew her brother well enough that she could anticipate his emotions. She sticks out her tongue at him childishly. Crowley mutters something and grabs the first piece of clothing from the top of the pile. It’s a wool dress shirt with stays laced up the back. He tugs it out and bounces over to Ashtoreth.

“Do me up,” he demands.

“Must I?” Ashtoreth teases.

“I did yours!” Crowley whines, already feeling his sister tug at the laces.

“We should pool our money and get one of those wrapped corsets,” Ashtoreth suggests with another pull. “They say they’re easier to wear without a helper.”

“What? A jump? They’ve got no bones,” Crowley muses. “Sounds loads more comfortable.”

Their mother shouts for them again and this time she sounds irritated.

“Find your blessed bonnet, you fiend,” Ashtoreth demands, smacking her brother on the laces she’d just tied.

“I’ve already got them!” Crowley declares and waves it and his gloves in front of her face so she can feel the air.

“Then we’re off!” Ashtoreth says proudly and moves toward the door with the same confidence she exudes in their private spaces.

Crowley stuffs his boots, gloves, and bonnet under his arm as he hops on one foot to add stockings to his feet. He follows his sister in this manner. Ashtoreth waits for him at the top of the stairs, her hand clutching the newel post. It makes him pause and allow him a moment of sadness. She has become more confident with her new life in darkness. Yet these stairs, or any change in incline, still give her trepidation. He stomps into his boot and drops his bonnet on his head.

“May I escort the lady?” he teases, covering his sadness with levity.

“Depends,” Ashtoreth counters. “Are you wearing gloves? An Omega should never touch another without gloves.”

He sneers and pulls them on while muttering, “Blood stupid rules.”

She giggles behind her hand and then takes his arm. They descent like a well-matched pair. The Dame has always ensured that they look like twins. They may not wear the exact same outfit, but they always match in some manner. Today is no different. Black trousers and a red stay for Crowley, a red dress with black embroidery for Ashtoreth.

Society holds that once a solid family line of possible heirs is secured, families should sire younger Omega siblings. They’re to be added like delicate bone china to increase the family’s value through connections. Crowley growled at the time. He hates the suggestion that families can “select” which child they’ll have next. Worse, he hates feeling that he’s lesser than his siblings.

It’s not hard to believe, however, from the judging looks the Alphas at the bottom of the stairs give. Their mother sizes them up as she adjusts her hat. Lucifer and Blanc stand still as statues watching them descend. Crowley wishes sometimes that they were valuable to their mother. The Dame, however, sees them more as useless pawns. With no dowry to secure them mates, they will likely spend their lives in the upstairs room with no company but the other.

Deirdre, their Beta housekeeper, smiles at them and hands them both their matching black cloaks. She tuts fondly and ties the ribbon on Crowley’s bonnet before adjusting the fall of Ashtoreth’s cloak. Ashtoreth touches her wrist as Deirdre steps away.

“Safe travels, ducks,” Deirdre coos and pats each of their cheeks.

“Enough of that,” their Mother orders. It’s cool, lacking any emotion, but makes Deirdre hop backward from the twins. “We’re just going to Tadfield. Not out to the Sahara.”

“Too old for a nanny anyhow,” Lucifer agrees, straightening his hat.

The Dame strides forward and Arthur, Deirdre’s husband, and the house’s manservant, grabs the door to allow her to pass. Lucifer offers Blanc his arm and they follow. As they turn, Crowley notes Blanc’s neck. Her mating mark stands out refreshed and swollen—Crowley will mention this to his sister later. They both know their sister-in-law was in heat the week prior. Everyone in the house could smell it. Another babe is likely on the way.

Once they’re out of earshot, Deirdre chuckles, “All the same. Take care of each other.”

She stretches up to Crowley’s tall cheek and kisses it. He ducks it with embarrassment. Ashtoreth returns the kiss when Deirdre gives her one.

“Yes, Nan,” Ashtoreth replies, lovingly. She steps on Crowley’s foot when he doesn’t echo her directly.

“Ouch! Er, yes, Nanny. We’ll behave,” Crowley finally says with a sigh.

“Oh, that will be the day,” Deirdre says with disbelief. “Run along now before your mother sees that you’re not wearing scent cuffs.”

The two Omegas grab arms and hurry after their family. Arthur gives his wife a stern look.

“Don’t encourage them, love,” he grumbles. “We don’t need her Ladyship fussing at us again.”

“I don’t need to encourage them!” she replies exasperatedly. “They come by it naturally.”

Deirdre stands in the open doorway as her husband helps the family into the barouche. It’s a warm day for this late in December, but even so, the mother hen in her wonders if she ought to run back in and pull a quilt from the twins’ bed for them to cuddle under. They do get cold so quickly. Crowley sees her in the doorway and waves. The Omega leans over to his sister and she raises her hand as well, even as she looks in slightly the wrong direction. It makes Deirdre’s heart ache even as she raises her own hand to wave.

The Dame had not taken Ashtoreth’s loss of sight as hard as Deirdre or Crowley had. Even the Omega herself had more grief than her own mother, and Ashtoreth had dealt with it in the grace of an angel. The fever that brought on her blindness nearly killed her. Deirdre still feels a surge of guilt for not disobeying the Dame and adding more fuel to the twin’s bedroom fire. They were fragile in health, even though their spirits were resilient.

She closes the door on these grey thoughts as the barouche pulls away with Arthur on the driver’s bench. Crowley and Ashtoreth ride backward in the barouche, squished next to Blanc. It’s the appropriate place for Omegas, mated or otherwise. When they were younger they could ride up in the seat with the driver. Sometimes, Ashtoreth was even allowed to use the Coachman’s break to help slow the ponies. Crowley never wanted to slow. If given his choice, the barouche would whip around corners at breakneck speeds. He loved the feeling of the wind in his hair.

Today, the wind cuts across the back of his neck. Ashtoreth shivers and Crowley reaches over to tug her cloak up over her bare skin, hiding her Omega mark as he does so. She smiles in return.

“What’s the weather like today?” she asks as she turns her face up to the sky.

“Grey clouds, I’m afraid,” Blanc replies. “Warmer than yesterday.”

“Unseasonably, one might say,” Lucifer rumbles.

His leg stretches across the barouche floor and he rubs his foot up Blanc’s leg. She shivers and looks away, embarrassed. Her movement makes her opal wedding earring sparkle; it’s ostentatious so any other Alpha could see her claim. It’s the Jayanthony way, apparently. Crowley doesn’t remember his father, but he is told that his was equally large.

Their mother still considers Omegas to be property. She considers Lucifer’s inappropriate game of footsie, hums, then looks out across the fields that roll past. Crowley closes his eyes and ignores the sick feeling in his stomach. He hears the rustle of fabric as his brother’s foot moves his wife’s dress aside to continue his inspection with his boot.

Blanc is mortified. She soaks through her scent cuffs and the odor reflects her embarrassment. Ashtoreth tucks tighter into Crowley’s side. She can smell Blanc’s distress and embarrassment but is ignorant of its reason. Crowley takes Ashtoreth’s hand. They remain silent, even as Blanc’s cheeks flame and her scent wafts with shame. It’s beyond inappropriate, but no Omega can stand up to this behavior. The Dame should, Crowley knows, but she won’t. She did worse to their father in public, he’s been told.

After nearly half an hour, Tadfield rolls into sight and Crowley is relieved. He leans to his sister’s ear and begins to keep a running commentary to what he sees. She is grateful, but also worries. What had upset their sister-in-law so badly? Why was her brother shielding her? The carriage bumps along the main road and the horses slow.

Arthur opens the door to the barouche and Lucifer jumps out. He holds out his hand to his mate and Blanc takes it, without hesitation. What choice does she have? Crowley glares at his brother but ducks his face to hide the expression in his bonnet. It wouldn’t do to be seen. His mother would make a scene and poor Ashtoreth deserves to get out of the house if nothing else.

The Dame exits next, using Arthur’s hand to steady her. She waits on the pavement for Ashtoreth and Crowley to join her. They walk arm-in-arm behind their Alpha parent, eyes averted from anyone passing by. They’re not out in society and have no connections beyond those of the family. They’re shadows in the world. Ashtoreth hears the gossip as they follow their Mother.

“Spinster twins,” one woman comments, and another two women tut and giggle.

“I do like gingers,” an Alpha, from his scent, replies further down the pavement. “I wonder if I could have them both.”

“Buy one, get one free?” his companion replies, his Alpha scent spiking with lust. “They’re both broken after all.”

It’s true. They walk strangely with their hip and spinal disorders. However, linked as they are by arms, they move in tandem. They always have, Ashtoreth thinks.

Their Mother remains ignorant to the comments, by devise or inattention. She opens the door to the haberdashery and shoos the twins inside. Lucifer and his wife wander further down the lane, stopping occasionally to talk to neighbors.

The haberdashery is warm. It smells like muslin and mothballs. Ashtoreth turns her face up and smiles. Crowley grins to see his sister do so. Then, his eyes land on the other patron in the establishment. He has blond curls and bright hazel eyes. Crowley’s heart skips a beat. It’s the man who eavesdropped on them as they privately read a letter at some society wedding.

“Lord Aziraphale!” his mother greets with a quick curtsy.

“Lady Burningstone,” the Alpha replies with a polite bow.

He looks beyond their mother to the twins and Crowley ducks his head, a blush blooming over his face. Ashtoreth is already hidden in her bonnet, but she squeezes her brother’s arm. His scent curls with attraction and Ashtoreth cannot wait to tease him about it. She certainly did the last time they saw Lord Aziraphale and Crowley reacted the same way.

“You have a crush! You’re sweet on him!” she provoked him, playfully.

“I can’t be! I’ve never spoken to him,” Crowley retorted.

But she was right. The man was gorgeous.

“These are my Omega children,” Dame comments with a wave. “They are not yet out in society.”

Crowley can smell the surprise in Lord Aziraphale’s scent. They are past the age to be presented. Coming out is a young Omega’s scene. Crowley and Ashtoreth missed their chance when they took ill at sixteen. Their mother had planned some grand ball then but has never had the inclination since.

Lord Aziraphale smiles, surprised contained, and gives a polite nod in their direction. He continues his communication only with their mother, as decorum dictates.

Ashtoreth wonders at this. How lonely their circle will be when all their Alpha family is mated and married. Who will they have? Doubtless their household and each other, but beyond that? At some point, being presented into society is the only way to make acquaintances. Without such coming out, they will be limited in their later years. She envisions it: the blind spinster Omega and her wild spinster Omega brother. They’ll keep cats or something equally as depressing and knit scarves for orphans. She shakes herself and smells the air.

Crowley’s scent is the easiest to pick out. It is the homey and welcoming scent of cedar that she knows best. Currently, it is tinged with something sweeter, like sap, but also the smokiness of embarrassment. She smiles. Her mother’s scent is hidden behind her scent cuffs, but Ashtoreth knows it anyway: mint. It’s so very her. Mint is cold and hard to take in excess. Ashtoreth also smells pear which is mixed with the scent that marks it as an Alpha scent. It must be Lord Aziraphale.

Someone enters the room, an Alpha with a tobacco scent: the haberdasher, Mr. Doubleerik.

“Welcome all. I’ve got your new duds here, Lord Fellthrop—“

“Forgive me,” Lord Aziraphale interrupts politely, “Lord Fellthrop is my brother.”

“Ah, forgive me, Lord Aziraphale, I quite knew that,” Mr. Doubleerik replies, chastened.

Crowley watches the interaction through his lashes. Lord Aziraphale is polite and kind. He smells welcoming. He takes his garments from Doubleerik and wishes them all a good day with a bow. Crowley turns his body, surreptitiously, to follow the Alpha with his eyes. Lord Aziraphale pauses, just before the door and looks directly at the Omega. Crowley’s eyes widen and his blush reappears.

Lord Aziraphale’s pear scent heightens for just a moment as if spiked with Port like a poached fruit dessert. Crowley feels the Alpha’s eyes study him, and he chuckles softly before he opens the door and disappears out onto the street. Crowley has barely enough time to process this before his mother is directly before him.

“You little harlot,” she growls, her voice icy.

She is quiet but still makes Mr. Doubleerik disappear into the back workroom. Alphas do not interfere in other Alpha’s business. Getting out of the way is the best course of action.

“Mother,” Ashtoreth begs, but the Dame overrides her.

“Go, both of you, and wait in the carriage,” their mother orders.

Crowley leads them out, slinking like a kicked dog. “Sorry, Ashtoreth,” he says, his voice laden with emotions.

Ashtoreth can’t find it in herself to reply. She’s disappointed, but also afraid. What punishment will await them when they return home? Sometimes, it’s just silence. Other times, especially when they were younger, there were more physical ramifications. She wishes she could have touched the fabrics to choose her new dress. It doesn’t matter now, she tells herself as Crowley helps her into the barouche.

“Sorry,” Crowley says again, sounding as if he’s sinking into himself.

Ashtoreth ignores him. She is cross, but mostly her fears swirl in her head. It’s stupid that they’ll both be punished for one’s actions. It’s always been this way, however. About then, something lands on her glove. Then something else.

It’s raining.

Crowley grumbles, “Great.”

They both want to get out of the rain, that is a given. There are some problems, obviously. One, they’re already in trouble. Two, they were given a direct order by an Alpha—their Alpha parent, none the less—to wait in the carriage. Three, they cannot go inside anywhere without an escort.

It begins to rain harder. Crowley pulls his cloak off and holds it over their heads, a sad attempt to keep them dry. The fabric soaks quickly and drapes down over them. Ashtoreth can feel it pushing down on her bonnet. Crowley shivers without his cloak too. The air is cooling quickly, the unusually warm winter day dissipating. In the downpour, they’re soaked through. Crowley cuddles closer to his sister, bleeding out worried, sad, despondent scents. Ashtoreth is no better. Her clover scent darkens like peat.

“My dears,” a posh voice calls as an Alpha runs toward them, umbrella held aloft, “you’ll catch your death!”

Lord Aziraphale stands beside their carriage with his umbrella held over its side, trying to protect them. Rain pelts his top hat, leaving its tan fabric a lusterless brown.

Ashtoreth sputters and grabs her brother’s knee. Crowley chokes.

“We,” he whispers and looks down at their laps, “can’t leave the barouche. Mother said—“

“Right, of course,” Lord Aziraphale shoves his umbrella at Crowley, who drops one edge of his cloak to take it. “Is she still in the haberdasher?”

Ashtoreth and Crowley nod as one and Lord Aziraphale hurries back toward the shop. The twins huddle under the umbrella as the rain increases. It helps until the wind begins to blow. The horses toss their heads and stamp their feet in the gathering puddles. Lord Aziraphale returns to their side, a slight limp in one leg while rain runs off his coat.

“Inside, you two. Your mother is waiting,” he says, opening the door quickly.

Crowley hands Lord Aziraphale his umbrella and grabs his sister’s hand.

“C’mon Ash,” he guides.

His cloak slides off his shoulders where he’d dropped it, but it doesn’t much matter. He’s already drenched. Lord Aziraphale grabs it, shuts the carriage, and hurries behind them, holding his umbrella aloft. They rush into the haberdashery where their mother glares at them. Lucifer and Blanc have joined her.

“You haven’t enough sense to come in out of the rain?” their brother grumbles. “Idiot Omegas.”

Lord Aziraphale closes his umbrella and issues a low and quiet growl. Ashtoreth spins to face him, even unable to see him, she’s alarmed. She wants to duck back and hide, but Crowley holds her fast.

“That’s quite enough of that,” Lord Aziraphale replies sharply. “They did not break the order they were given. They should be rewarded for their obedience.”

The Dame stares at Lord Aziraphale. “Indeed,” she says stiffly.

Lord Aziraphale hands Crowley his cloak and bows to them all, “I take my leave then.”

His umbrella snaps open and he’s out again into the storm. Crowley watches him go.

“Stop ogling him like a hussy,” his mother snaps, and Ashtoreth gasps.

Crowley closes his eyes in mortification. The Dame grabs him by the arm and pulls him further into the shop. Ashtoreth still has hold of her brother’s arm so she follows along.

“Take your sister and go stand by the fire,” she orders.

Blanc looks away and Lucifer ignores the exchange. Crowley follows their mother’s direction and they try to dry themselves at the fireplace.

Eventually, the storm passes and they return home without anyone else speaking to either of the twins. It is too late for their fickle health, though, and they both succumb to a fever.

Deirdre remarked early in their illness that it seems to be stronger than a seasonal cold. “I think we ought to call the doctor.”

The Dame dismissed this outright. “I do not have time for your idle fancies. They’re ill. They’re always ill. Let them sleep. Give them broth. I’ll be at the tables at Finety House.”

Once she’s gone, Deirdre tried to convince Lucifer to call the doctor, but he and Blanc were preoccupied with packing for the season in town.

“Lady Burningstone has already made her decision. Leave it, woman. They’ll be fine!” Lord Lucifer shouts before slamming his chest shut.

Deirdre stands in the kitchen and kneads dough to alleviate her anxiety. There is no one else to try to convince. Hastur is visiting his aunt in the South. He’ll not return for weeks. Dagon had dined with her brother Usher at the Rectory the night before and was yet to return.

Cook and Deirdre stood over the twin’s bed as Ashtoreth paled and weakened. As she fought for breath. Crowley woke once only to take his sister’s hand and then fall again into a restless doze.

“I don’t care if I get dismissed,” Cook lamented, “you best go get the doctor. This poor baby won’t make it til the dawn!”

Cook’s words were prophetic. Ashtoreth passed in the wee hours of the morning, a mere twenty minutes before the doctor arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- Corsets, jumps, and wrapped corsets are a fascinating history. Curious? Google them. Fashion is so neat.  
> \- Ashtoreth's blindness came from a fever... probably meningoencephalitis. (E.g. the same virus that made Laura Ingalls Wilder's sister Mary blind)  
> \- Marital sexual assault would not have even raised eyebrows at this time as it was seen as a spouse's "duty".   
> \- In a large city, say Birmingham or London, the Jayanthony's would go to the haberdashery for their fabric, then the tailor/dressmaker to have their clothes made. However, Tadfield isn't huge, so it's the same place. (And yes, "Double Erik" is the disposable demon. Haha.)


	4. Chapter 4

Lady Michael Herald marries Mr. Sandalphon on a Tuesday. His wedding earring is red and swollen, but he touches it happily as they watch servants unpack boxes into the Parsonage the following Thursday. Aziraphale is there to help them unpack their boxes. He carries books into their study before joining them for a cold supper at their table.

“You’re next!” his sister teases as she takes a selection of ham and cheese on her plate.

Her mate chuckles, “Just like every married Alpha. Once they’re happy, they want everyone else to be wed too.”

Aziraphale glances, covetously at Sandalphon’s mating mark. It’s raw looking at this point, but it will shimmer white and silver as it scars. When matched with his wedding earring, it makes Sandalphon, who Aziraphale personally finds dull, almost interesting.

“I do not think I’m the marrying type,” he finally says, even as his Alpha instincts clamor in disagreement. He ignores it.

Sandalphon looks ready to argue, but his wife sets her hand over his and he remains silent. Aziraphale’s inability to father pups will make finding him a mate nearly impossible. Yet, he can admit that he would enjoy the companionship. It’s in his instincts to protect, yet he knows no family that will cast off their Omega child to a sterile Alpha.

Days later, Gabriel takes up the challenge. “We could host a ball? If you were serious about finding a mate?”

“Oh, yes, sweetheart!” Uriel coos excitedly, cupping her middle.

Gabriel smiles indulgently at her, but Aziraphale shakes his head no. “I think not. A ball suggests that I’m the type of catch a family wants. Let’s be realistic.”

Uriel grabs Aziraphale’s arm. “Don’t you dare put yourself down that way.”

Aziraphale’s eyes travel down to her widening belly. “You know it’s true.”

She stammers and blushes, but does not give up. “A dinner party then?”

Gabriel considers this as Aziraphale avoids eye contact. “I could reach out to interested families. Make sure that they’re… aware of the situation. Discretely.”

Aziraphale glances at Uriel’s mating mark and swallows. “I would not be opposed.”

And that is basically that. Gabriel begins his inquires and letters go out. Aziraphale does not ask how it is proceeding, but based on his brother’s frustrated scent, he can assume. Then, in late August, Uriel sets the menu and schedules the piano tuner. The livery is pressed and the silver gets an extra polish. Extra servants are hired. Aziraphale stands in the doorway to the dining room and watches their butler direct the setting of the cutlery on the table. If he wasn’t so nervous, he would be proud of how Zionview Grove shines. Then he discovers that the intimate dinner party has become a four-day house party. The nerves return, only this time mixed with irritation at his brother’s ruse.

* * *

Aziraphale joins the family down in the main house of Zionview Grove as the carriages roll in. Three families join them. First are Lady Device and her husband Newt, along with her lady’s maid and her husband’s valet. The second is Lord Dowling and his wife Harriet, along with their staff, and the third is Lady Burningstone’s household.

Aziraphale meets them all, along with Gabriel and Uriel, with a welcoming bow along. The butler and footmen guide their guests to their rooms. Indeed, servants bustle around them like insects. They hauling bags, boxes, and chests. Guns are stowed (“For the shoot!” Uriel explains) and horses are stabled (“We might go for a ride on Sunday,” Gabriel suggests.). Lady Dowling has brought her pet parrot

Gulliver, which makes Aziraphale raise an eyebrow as his cage goes by. There’s no time for the comment though. The guests disappear into their rooms to prepare for dinner and Aziraphale has a momentary anxiety attack.

“This is really happening?” he asks, nearly breathless.

Gabriel cups the back of his neck as if he’s a pup. “Brother mine, breathe. This is a chance to meet Lord Crowley among friends. If it’s not meant to be, then we’ve had a lovely weekend. If it’s a match, then so be it.”

Aziraphale swallows and hurries off to change before the gong. His knee-breeches and cravat are starched and he nearly complains about them being uncomfortable. The only thing that reigns in his tongue is how pleased his valet Mr. Quartermaster looks he helps him into his new velvet-cuffed tails coat and then checks his scent cuffs.

“You’re ready, Your Grace,” he says with a grin. “Best of luck.”

“Thank you, Quartermaster,” he says with another swallow.

Nervously, Aziraphale enters the library before dinner. Lady and Lord Device are the only ones there and he breathes a sigh of relief. Anathema approaches him immediately and they clasp hands as friends.

“Hello, cousin,” he says fondly.

“AZ!” she replies and pulls him into a hug. “This is a big do. What do you think of all this? It’s not your usual style.”

While Anathema and Newt are distant cousins, they are still good friends. They know him well. Aziraphale takes Newt’s hand as he answers.

“Everything’s tickety boo,” he says with an attempt of a smile.

Newt laughs, then covers his mouth with his gloved hand. Next to his white glove, his sapphire wedding earring shines. “No need to lie here, Aziraphale.”

He lets his shoulder loosen. “I might have been a bit hasty in this. Perhaps I’m not ready.”

The first footman, Johnson, opens the door to allow entry for the Marquess of Fellthrop and his wife, along with Lord and Lady Dowling. The Dowlings are old peers and longtime Tories. Even so, he and Gabriel had been working together on a possible farm reform bill that had some claiming the two were becoming Whigs. Gabriel is clearly already discussing this when the door opens once more to admit Lord Lucifer and Lady Blanc. Blanc stands idly by as her husband jumps right into Gabriel and Thaddeus’s discussion.

Lord Lucifer fusses, “I’m just not sure what you hope to accomplish.”

“It’s for the best of the tenants,” Gabriel argued before his wife intervenes.

“Forgive me, but business happens over Port, not before dinner,” she reprimands, half teasing.

The youngest footman, Wensleydale, opens the door again and Aziraphale holds his breath. Lady Burningstone enters but remains completely ignorant of anything besides her comfort. Without biding any hello to the occupants of the room, she takes a chair by the fire. She has a red-haired shadow in the form of Lord Crowley. He stands behind her chair uneasily.

“Aren’t the Jayanthony’s supposed to be in mourning for their youngest child?” Newt whispers discretely to him.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, yet it seems that only Lord Crowley is honoring his sister.”

It’s true. Only the Omega son, whom Aziraphale remembers from a rainy day in a carriage some months before, is dressed in mourning weeds. Everyone else looks ready for a ball. They lack even the grays or purples of half-mourning.

Before anything further can happen, the butler announces the arrival of the Dowager Marchioness, as well as Michael and Sandalphon. Aziraphale stands to greet his mother and sister.

“Hello all,” the Dowager says with a sweet smile.

Aziraphale kisses her cheek and steps back so his brother can do the same. When Uriel steps up in greeting, the Dowager graces her belly with a soft look. Aziraphale shakes hands with his brother-in-law and his sister bats at his shoulder.

“Well done. I’m proud of you for giving it the college try,” she whispers when her abuse turns to a cheek kiss.

Aziraphale can offer nothing in reply. Instead, he allows his brother to introduce the party. Everyone circles more tightly around the fireplace. As the Devices are family and the Dowlings are old friends, it is only Lady Burningstone’s party that needs an introduction.

“Dowager Fellthrop, it has been a few summers since we last saw one another,” the Dame greets. “This is my son Lucifer and his mate.”

Here she pauses for them to bow and make their greetings. The Dowager seems amused.

Done, she directs everyone to the man behind her. “And presenting my Omega son Crowley.”

Lord Crowley gives a nervous curtsy. Aziraphale locks eyes with him and Aziraphale’s breath catches. He is much too old to just be presented into society, in fact, many would say he is a spinster. Aziraphale, fortunately, is not many people. He is, however, quite taken. Crowley is a vision. Aziraphale has never seen the Omega’s eyes before—they’re golden yellow, almost like a cat’s. He also seems completely overwhelmed by Aziraphale’s gaze and flushes.

In hopes of making this less awkward, Lord Aziraphale reaches out his hand and takes Crowley’s, “A pleasure to be formally introduced at last,” he said as he kisses the back of the Omega’s gloved hand.

“The pleasure is mine,” Crowley replies with a bow of his head.

Crowley flushes even more, with his blush extending over his ears and down his throat. His mother clears her throat and Crowley quickly retreats behind her. Amused, Gabriel continues the introductions and Aziraphale lets it settle as background noise.

Instead, he catalogs Crowley’s attire. He wears a long black gown that brushed the tops of his dancing slippers. It is clearly a ball gown as if someone had demanded he dress for the occasion, but he’d refused to give up his mourning colors. The dress has a wide bodice and a high waistline. Its shoulder trim balloon up like caplets. The dress itself is dark grey with black lace falling overtop it. It’s lovely. _He’s_ lovely.

Before the conversation can strike up further, the butler, Shadwell, rings the gong. In later years, dining will change its rules to be more organized and planned. In this age, however, they do not escort one another in or sit at place cards for such an informal gathering. Instead, they bunch up and politely mob into the dining room.

As they do, Aziraphale overheads Lady Burningstone chastising Lord Crowley.

“I will not have any child of mine throwing himself at a suitor,” she growls and Crowley shrinks down.

“Charming woman,” Aziraphale grumbles to his mother.

“Behave,” the Dowager replies.

His mother does seem to agree though. She somehow engineers the ability for separating Lord Crowley from Lady Burningstone. Aziraphale finds himself seated between the Omega himself and the Omega’s older brother.

The first course is an artichoke soup and Aziraphale always enjoys it. Some of the flavor is lost because Lord Lucifer Jayanthony is Aziraphale’s first seat partner. He’s crass and obnoxious but thinks himself clever and smooth.

“My brother is quite droll, you’ll find,” Lord Lucifer begins, slurping his soup from his spoon. “Before our sister died, rest her soul and so forth, he had the pluck to enroll in university through letter. Wanted to study Botany, if you can believe it! He even tried a nom de plume. Would have been ‘Anthony J. Crowley’ the Cambridge grad—a nobleman’s son dressed as a faux-commoner! No gold tassel! Heavens, no tassel at all. Heh. They sniffed it out, eventually. Imagine, an Omega studying at Cambridge!”

Aziraphale feels the beginnings of a growl starting low in his throat. He grabs his wine glass and gulps, trying to dislodge the sound.

“Is that so amusing?” he asks, too sharply and too loudly, judging by Gabriel’s raised eyebrow from down the table and the sharp silence of conversation around them.

Lord Lucifer shrugs, “I found it daring—borderline line audacious, of course—but foolish. Why waste his efforts outside his talents?”

Aziraphale squeezes the stem of his wineglass. “And how is it beyond his talents?”

It’s silly, he thinks. He does not know Lord Crowley, but he does hate when others look down upon Omegas. His mother is one of the wisest and strongest beings on the planet. Her secondary gender does not define her.

“He keeps plants, as many of his kind do. There’s nothing cognitive involved in that. It’s lucky that Mother knew someone there. Imagine if it had come out—what a scandal that would have been. Crowley had the whole thing planned out too, some sort of scent alteration and even a boarding house to use as his address.” Lucifer slurps more soup.

He drops his spoon into the soup, clearly signally that he is finished. Lucifer pats his mouth with his serviette and says, “I will say, however, he is very accomplished. Drawing, music, all those sorts of things. You could do worse—he’s very taken with you. Mother is very open to the match but thinks he’s playing the trollop to turn your head,” Lucifer continues as he returns his serviette to his lap.

His inner self, the part that is all Alpha, shivers with delight. A worthy hunt for a worthy mate—intelligent and accomplished. He acknowledges this and then shoves it back. He is a thinking man, his secondary gender does not control him and his actions. He is no beast.

“How is that even possible for her to believe? We’ve barely spoken thirty words to one another. Most of those were me trying to get him and your sister out of the rain,” Aziraphale says, surprised. “And he’s in mourning!”

“Mourning, sure,” Lord Lucifer agrees dismissively. “You’d think Ashtoreth were his wife, not his twin by the way he cries.”

“That’s unkind to say of anyone, especially one’s own kin,” Aziraphale reprimands.

Lucifer shrugs. Dinner continues in this fashion. Now that he’s covered the topic his mother clearly ordered him to speak to, Lord Lucifer can talk of nothing outside gambling and his family. He has a child already and another on the way, but has no interest in knowing his son or the incoming child. Aziraphale finds himself focusing on the second course of fish just to ignore the man.

Then, thankfully, as the fish course is cleared and the meat moved to be sliced, Uriel gives a polite cough. It’s time to turn. As he does, he immediately smiles. Lord Crowley Jayanthony looks pleased to be his other seat partner.

“Hello again, Lord Crowley,” he greets as a footman reaches past him to add the next wine to his glass.

“And hello to you, Lord Aziraphale,” the Omega replies with a smile. “Was my brother a bore?”

“He was,” and here Aziraphale considers his words carefully. A brother can be a trying topic at best, “very true to himself, I believe.”

Crowley laughs brightly at these words. “So a blaggard.”

His eyes are merry and Aziraphale finds himself equally amused as the meat comes around. He selects a portion for the Omega, as is customary, and sets it on Lord Crowley’s plate. He then passes it further down the table.

“Very much so. He did also speak to your accomplishments though.”

Savory pies, plates of vegetables swimming in butter sauce, as well as pickles, circulate. Lord Aziraphale offers them to Crowley, who nods before speaking, “If you’d like a CV, I’d be happy to draw one up for you.”

Aziraphale serves them both, then chuckles and passes the dishes along. Their communication lingers on what is being served until all the offerings have gone around the table. Satisfied with his provision to the Omega (and if that’s not Alpha instinct then Aziraphale is a Beta, he thinks), he takes a bite of boar. He hums with delight and closes his eyes to savor the taste. When he opens them again, the Omega is staring at him. Aziraphale blushes. People do not always take to his enjoyment of food. He changes the subject.

“Your brother tells me that you wish to study Botany?” he begins as he cuts another bite.

Crowley’s head swirls round to face him, worried. “He was teasing me.”

“I’m sure he was, but I do hope you’ll not give it up. Seek out tutors and, heavens, what am I saying? Come and use my brother’s library! I am sure we have a great number of texts on the subject,” he gushes, proudly, before he takes a sip of wine.

Crowley looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “You think an Omega should study?” he asks.

Aziraphale is confused. “Of course,” he says, unequivocally.

Crowley continues to stare at him, even as he moves to cut his meat. “No university would take me.”

“Foolishness, all of it, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says irritated. “I will never understand some people’s discrimination.”

Crowley blushes again and the Alpha catches a warm whiff of pine from Crowley’s wrist, even from under his scent cuff. They each take a bite and a natural pause in their conversation.

“I am so very sorry to hear of your sister,” Aziraphale says, softly as the conversation returns.

Crowley’s face suddenly saddens and his eyes—oh! his strangely colored eyes!—moisten. “Thank you. No one but the family knew her, so I feel as if I’m the only one who misses her.”

Then, like he’s shaking off the emotion, he fakes a smile and studies his pickles. “Forgive me, Lord Aziraphale. You do not want to hear of it—“

“I believe you’re wrong, Lord Crowley. I wished I had known her. You are a singular person and if she loved you as you loved her, then she must have been special too.”

The words spill out of him and now it’s his turn to flush. Crowley stares at him, mouth agape, and the candlelight sparkles in his eyes. With an embarrassed clearing of his throat, Aziraphale grabs his drink and drains his wine.

When he’s revived enough, he studies the Omega. He looks completely at sea. Aziraphale touches his elbow and startles him. In his confusion, his Omega mark seems dark against his pale skin.

“Tell me of Tophet,” he says, hoping this is a safer line of conversation. “I’ve never been to Rapture.”

Crowley smiles shyly and Aziraphale has to swallow again, this time for a different reason.

“Not much to tell, I’m afraid. Most of the Alphas are gone to war and most of the shops sell the same things they have for many years,” Crowley grins. “Just a little town in England.”

“Are there many country balls and such?” he asks, then regrets it. Lord Crowley is just been presented in society this night. He’s never been to a country dance!

Crowley smiles indulgently, “I believe there are some. I’ve not attended.”

“Yes, yes, of course, very silly of me,” Aziraphale stammers.

Crowley, however, does not seem insulted. “Some months back though, the Dame held a dinner party. I snuck down—“

“What do you mean ‘snuck down’?” Aziraphale interrupts confused.

Crowley fidgets with his fork, pushing his vegetables around the plate. “Er, well, I wasn’t to attend. I’m not out, well, I wasn’t then. I’m not really sure if I am now or not, but anyhow—“

“Your mother held a dinner party during mourning and didn’t even invite her own household? The cheek!” he whispers scandalized.

For whatever reason, this amuses Crowley and he grins. “Oh just wait, because the scandal is yet to be unmasked, Lord Aziraphale! Some retired military gent was wandering out of the drawing-room and saw me.”

Again, Aziraphale interrupts, “A retired gentleman spoke to an unchaperoned Omega?”

Crowley laughs, delighted. “He was a Beta. Perfectly harmless—“

“No human is ‘perfectly harmless’, my dear,” Aziraphale admonishes.

Crowley studies him, a spark still lit in his eye. “Perhaps not, but I lack many conversation partners in Tophet. He was willing to chat and I was lonely.”

Sadness flits about his yellow irises and Aziraphale nods, knowingly. “Of course, forgive me impertinence.”

Crowley waves this away. “You’re a man of propriety. It’s nothing to apologize for.”

“What did you and this Beta speak of?”

“Oh, yes, erm, right. So, anyway,” and here Crowley seems to find the thread of his story, “I learn that he knew my grandfather. And I’m excited. I know very little about my father’s family. I start asking after him, only to find out that they hated each other. This guy didn’t just hate him, he killed my grandfather in a duel! Worse, he thought I was mocking him,” Crowley retells, his hands gracefully flying through the air.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale adds, properly scandalized, but also mesmerized. “Did Lady Buringstone know?”

“Ah, well, about that,” Crowley rubs the back of his neck as if his Alpha parent grabbed him like a pup. “She did. Erm, she wasn’t upset to lose her father-in-law it seemed.”

Their plates are cleared at that point and dessert is served. It’s delicate fruit-shaped marzipans and small slices of cheese. The footmen pour Maderia into their glasses and Crowley nearly cheers.

“Fond of Maderia, are you, my dear?” Aziraphale asks amused.

“I was worried it would be that ratafia tripe,” he admits, drinking with pleasure. “Mother believes that Omegas are too ‘delicate’ for wine.”

At this, Aziraphale embarrassedly checks the stemware at Crowley’s seat. Indeed, he’s only been served Orgeat, or almond-flavored spring water.

“Are you, um, fond of wine?” he asks, unsure if the Omega has even tasted it before.

“Can you keep a secret, Lord Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, slyly. “My father’s dowery included a stock of claret and the Dame _hates_ claret. She has never noticed as the stock has dwindled.”

At this Aziraphale gives a bright, joyful laugh. It startles out of him and makes Crowley reply with a slow, wide smile. He selects his wineglass and sips the Maderia slowly with pleasure, savoring each swallow. Aziraphale watches him enjoy it before pushing his own glass toward the Omega.

“Please, take mine,” he says when Crowley looks at him in surprise. “You enjoyed it. I’m sure you’d appreciate a second glass.”

Crowley salutes him with his glass and takes a drink. Aziraphale selects a portion of cheese and carefully nibbles on it. He lets his eyes drift over to his brother who watches him with bright eyes. Aziraphale nods. Yes, this isn’t as bad as he expected. Gabriel grins and turns back to Newt to continue his conversation. When Aziraphale turns back, he’s taken with the shine of the candlelight on Crowley’s ornate hairstyle. His red curls are twisted up into some sort of chignon and are decorated with shiny silver, floral combs, and dark red ribbons. He sees Aziraphale looking at him and turns shyly.

“Your sister-in-law’s maid assisted with my hair,” he says and nearly reaches up to touch it.

“You look very handsome,” Aziraphale admires warmly.

Crowley’s movements jerk in surprise. Aziraphale hums again, his Alpha instincts purring to continue to complement the lovely Omega at his side. It’s not just an innate behavior, of course, Lord Crowley deserves the admiration. The fact that he seems surprised by it only furthers Aziraphale’s drive to regard him with his eyes and words. They finish their desserts with relative silence. It’s comfortable, but they both catch the other sneaking glances at their faces. Aziraphale can’t help but wiggle in his seat with pleasure.

Shortly afterward, Uriel stands and the Omegas join her. The footmen deliver the Port and add some to every Alpha’s glass. Aziraphale follows Crowley with his eyes, only to see the Omega glance back at him and blush. Aziraphale grabs his Port and throws it back. He finds this hour tedious, so he lets the other Alphas chat. He studies Lady Burningstone while he does. She’s a prim woman with clear opinions.

“I have little time for Omegas,” she complains, sipping her Port. “They’re little more than breeding machines.”

Aziraphale bristles and sees that Anathema and Gabriel in similar responses. No wonder Lucifer is such a ponce. He came by it naturally.

“Here, here,” Lucifer adds. Knowing that he learned to be a bigot from his mother does not make Aziraphale forgive him in any fashion.

“The Omega mind is just as complex as ours,” Lord Dowling replies thoughtfully, with the same phrasing that every politician has mastered. “Heavens knows that enough Omegas have taken to the field for King and Country—“

“Indeed,” Lady Burningstone interrupts, “my own dead husband did. His own stupidity was his own undoing, no doubt.”

Aziraphale stands and brushes down his front. “I suddenly find myself in need of tea. Forgive me, brother, but I think I’ll join the Omegas.”

“I will join you!” Anathema agrees already on her feet.

“Well, it’s been a short time of Port,” Lady Burningstone responds, insultingly. “But I suppose we could join them as well. There are cards, yes?”

So, to the surprise of everyone involved, the Alphas rejoin the Omegas within twenty minutes. The card table is set up and Lucifer, Sandalphon, Lord Dowling, and Lady Burningstone make their way over without much discussion. Lady Dowling hops up from the sofa when she hears them decide to play Commerce.

“Do excuse me,” she titters, “Lord Dowling has promised to front my wagers for any game tonight.”

Smiling, Gabriel wanders over to get a cup of tea, then joins Michael, Newt, and Anathema in the corner to discuss something related to horses. The topic catches Lady Blanc’s interest and she excuses herself to join them.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale smiles at his mother, who is seating on the sofa next to Uriel sipping from a teacup. He notes that Lord Crowley is standing, awkwardly behind the second sofa. He twists his hands so that his gloves wrinkle.

“Would you care for some tea, Lord Crowley?” Aziraphale inquires.

Crowley makes some sort of verbal reply, but it seems to lack any vowels. Aziraphale takes this as a yes. He collects his cup from Mr. Shadwell, already made to his tastes. When he’s there, he looks back to Crowley.

“How do you take it?” he asks with another indulgent smile.

Crowley swallows and clears his throat, “One sugar, some cream?”

Shadwell nods, apparently approving of this, and fixes Crowley’s tea. He hands it to Aziraphale who smiles his thanks, then takes the teacup to the Omega.

He settles onto the open sofa and motions to empty space at his side. “Join us?”

Crowley shifts uncomfortably before taking the open seat.

“How was your dinner, Lord Crowley?” the Dowager asks.

He stutters, “Lovely. Thank you.”

Uriel watches him and takes a sip of tea. “You know, I was terrified the first time I met this family too,” she says.

Crowley studies his teacup, unable to look up even as he gives a quick nod. “Forgive me. I’m new to all this, old as I am. I keep sticking my foot in my mouth without meaning to.”

“I doubt that,” Uriel soothes, but, simultaneously, the Dowager makes a noise of interest, “Do tell!”

Aziraphale stares at his mother in amazement. “Mama!” he admonishes her.

Crowley stutters again and his sibilant letters extend in a hiss, “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be.”

“I’m not sure I follow?” the Dowager says, clearly surprised at Crowley’s honesty.

“The Dame always said that cards were only for Alphas. Yet, it seems…” he looks at the table where his brother, mother, and the Dowlings play. It’s nothing more than a quick glance though. “It seems that I am at a tremendous disadvantage.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale argues.

“You’re an angel for not judging,” Crowley teases, his smile small, “but you’re wrong, I think. At dinner, how many faux pas did I have?”

Aziraphale considers this in confusion, “None.”

Uriel clears her throat and Aziraphale looks up in surprise. “Many,” she corrects.

Crowley nods, unsurprised. “My sister and I did not have a governess, nor a formal tutor. We learned all we could from our Housekeeper, Mrs. Young, and what we could glean from books. I’m winging it.”

The Dowager leans across the space between the two sofas and takes his hand. “Tomorrow, Aziraphale will walk you down to the Dowager House and we can begin lessons.”

Crowley flushes, then pales. “The Dame won’t like that. I’ll need a chaperone.”

“Then we’ll do those lessons here,” Uriel decides. “Just us Omegas. Unless Aziraphale wants to… privately tutor you.” She winks at them both and sips her tea.

Crowley freezes, his cup halfway to his mouth.

“Or carry on as you have,” the Dowager assures him. “No one here will judge too harshly.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my mother?” Aziraphale asks, astonished.

“Oh hush,” the Dowager replies, her eyes sparkling along with her diamond wedding earring.

“She would have thrown a conniption fit when we were children if we’d used the wrong fork,” Aziraphale explains to Crowley.

Crowley grins, then faces the Dowager, “What was my friend like as a boy?”

Before the Dowager can reply, Aziraphale looks at Crowley in surprise, “Friend? Are we friends?”

Crowley blushes harder than he has before. His cheeks, ears, neck, and down below the bodice of his dress turn dark red. Aziraphale smiles and touches the back of Crowley’s gloved hand.

“I’d like that. I’ve far too few friends.”

Uriel makes a sound of appreciation and turns to her mother-in-law, suggesting that they’re going to have a side conversation. Aziraphale doesn’t think for a moment they’re doing anything but eavesdropping.

Crowley studies him, “You’d be my only friend. I’ve no one even to fraternize with.”

It’s said with such honesty that it bows Aziraphale over. “My dear, it’s my great honor to be called your friend.”

Crowley ducks his head and sets his teacup on the table between the sofas. “Then, friend,” he says softly, “tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, ehm, well, there’s not much to tell,” he dithers. “I served His Majesty the King in the War.”

“You’ve been abroad?” Crowley asks, his interest piqued.

“Well, only to the battlefield, I’m afraid.”

“I would love to travel,” Crowley admits. “My health won’t allow for it, apparently.”

“I’m sure some arrangement could be made,” Aziraphale states decidedly, then freezes as he reflects on his words.

Crowley gives a little puff of laughter. “Will you make a career in the military?”

Aziraphale’s face runs through its gamut of micro-expressions before he answers. “No, unfortunately, my days in the cavalry are over.”

“Ugh, horses,” Crowley replies with a wrinkled nose.

“Not to your taste? They’re one of the Almighty’s beasts. They are fine companions,” Aziraphale replies.

“Perhaps the ones you rode. Any in my experience they belong in the pits of Hell itself,” Crowley scoffs, and Aziraphale laughs.

“I take it that riding is not your favorite pastime?”

“I like the speed, don’t misunderstand me, but little else. After the ride, what have you? A sore buttock and animal hair all over your breeches,” Crowley continues with disgust.

Amused, Aziraphale sets his empty teacup aside. “How would you rather spend your hours?”

“Walks are lovely. Painting can be fun. I play the pianoforte. I like to dance,” he says all slowly as if tasting the flavor of each word.

“You have an interest in art? Tomorrow, perhaps we can tour the galleries here in Zionview,” Aziraphale exclaims.

Crowley smiles at him, another slow-growing expression. “I’d like that. Will you be my guide?”

Aziraphale licks his lower lip and nods quickly. “I’ll,” here he stammers, “I’ll do my best.”

“We could make a party of it,” Uriel interrupts and both Aziraphale and Crowley startle.

The Dowager hides her smile behind her closed fist and clears her throat to dismiss her laughter.

“And a picnic in the afternoon?” Uriel continues.

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale agrees. “Mrs. Tracy makes the best currant cakes!” Then, he suddenly turns to Crowley, “Do you like currants?”

Crowley takes in his very worried expression and answers in the same serious nature, “Ardently.”

Aziraphale’s expression morphs into a giant smile, clearly not noticing that Crowley is half teasing, “Delightful! It’s a date!”

At this Lady Burningstone turns quickly from her cards with a start. “Excuse me?”

It’s as if someone freezes Crowley in time. His eyes lock onto his dance slippers as if afraid to say anything. His scent breaks suddenly through his scent-cuffs, but it is no bright, clean cedar. It’s fear.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, distressed at the sudden turn in the Omega’s emotion, “there’s nothing to fear here.”

The Dowager smooths things over for Lady Burningstone and explains the next day’s plans. As she does, Uriel reaches across and takes her fellow Omega’s gloved hand.

“Steady on. She’s had a few more nips of Port and she’s lost another hand,” Uriel encourages him.

“I should go…” Crowley says slowly rising and gesturing toward the door out of the drawing-room. “I’m not very good at socializing and I’ll make the Dame cross.”

“So stay and practice,” Anathema invites, her tone warm as she joins them. She settles, catlike, on the arm of the sofa by Uriel. “We’re here to help you through it. I promise not to bite. Aziraphale… well, AZ’s half in love with you, so I’d stick around and see what happens if I were you.”

Crowley’s head whips to face Aziraphale at Lady Device’s words. Aziraphale stares, surprised and trapped, at the earnestness of the statement. Uriel and the Dowager both chuckle, but Crowley looks ready to pass out.

“You like me?” he asks, his voice breaking. It apparently shames him because the emotion colors his scent.

Aziraphale worries his hands in his coat hem for a moment before suddenly becoming brave. “I do. A good deal, in fact.” Here he clears his throat. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

Crowley swallows and the color slowly returns to his face. “Indeed.”

“And, well,” here Aziraphale gathers his courage again, “perhaps I could ask you to a dance?”

Aziraphale refuses to look at the occupants of the other sofa. He knows that if he does he will see three matching expressions of surprise. Since his puphood he has hated to dance.

His mother stands slowly, “I suppose I best take a seat at the pianoforte then.”

Uriel and Anathema abandon their seats to find their husbands as dance partners, but Aziraphale is still focused only on Crowley. He stares at him, then seems to come slowly back out of his shell.

“I would like to dance with you, Lord Aziraphale, if you’re amendable.”

“Then, my dear, please join me in the saloon,” Aziraphale says with a smile.

He offers Crowley his arm and the Omega takes it. “You know I’ve never danced with anyone but my sister?” he admits.

“Then this is a great honor, my dear,” Aziraphale says with a bright smile.

The Dowager is true to her word and settles in at the piano. She removes her gloves and Aziraphale allows himself the pleasure of seeing his mother’s Omega mark on the back of her hand. It makes him smile at its familiarity. Uriel, Newt, and Crowley take their places in a line opposite of Gabriel, Anathema, and Aziraphale. After a few scales to warm up her fingers, the Dowager announces that she is about to begin to play the country dance, “La Deliberation”.

“I’ve never done this one,” Crowley admits.

“Switch with us,” Newt says.

He and his wife become the second set of partners. Aziraphale and Crowley move down the line of partners so that Crowley can watch the other pairs. They have several lines of music to stand still through. Aziraphale takes this time to study the way the candlelight shines on ginger curls. Crowley watches Uriel’s and then Newt’s steps. He seems more and more confident. The first set of partners move down the line and now Anathema and Newt are the main dancers. Newt calls Crowley out to dance with them when it’s his turn and he grins happily.

And then, finally, Aziraphale and he are the first couple. They dance the square with Uriel, who protectively pats her belly as she moves, then with Gabriel, then they face one another and dance down the line of partners. Finally confident, Crowley grins at Aziraphale. Uriel and Gabriel take another turn, then the Dowager closes the song. They all applaud.

“May I pencil you in for the next reel, Lord Aziraphale?” Crowley teases from the line of Omega dancers.

“You should add my name in ink,” Aziraphale flirts back to watch the rosy flush take Crowley’s cheeks afresh.

Crowley’s eyes sparkle with devilish delight. “Two dances with the same Omega, Lord Aziraphale. People will talk.”

“So they will,” he admits as he offers a bow. “Dance with me anyway?”

Crowley nods, suddenly bashful again as the Dowager calls out for the next request.

“A cotillion,” Newt suggests loudly. Then he grins at his wife, “More time to dance with your partner. It’s good to talk!”

The Dowager considers this, “Is ‘La Fete de Regent’ acceptable to everyone?”

“Is that one where we walk around in circles like ponies on a lead for thirty measures?” Gabriel teases.

“Hush, son,” his mother reprimands and begins to play.

Just then Michael runs into the saloon dragging her husband behind her. “Wait for us! Wait for us!”

The Dowager purses her lips at her youngest child as she sits back on the bench. “Is that everyone now? No other latecomers?”

Thus settled, she begins again. Aziraphale and Crowley face one another and follow through the steps. They do indeed circle around, but it’s as a pair.

“How did you learn these dances?” Aziraphale asks. “You had no dance master, I assume?”

“Mostly watching our siblings come home from some country dance and practice,” he admits, stepping around Aziraphale then watching Aziraphale step around him. “Did you have a dance master?”

“Yes, and he was a slave driver,” Aziraphale laments dramatically. “My sister used to have our cousins and her friends over for pajama balls.”

Crowley smiles, clearly curious, but already charmed, “I don’t know what that is.”

“Just what it sounds like,” Aziraphale replies with joy. “After a night of staying up far too late and giggling, a group of girls in their nightgowns take over the ballroom. My mother loved hosting them, even if the girls were rowdy in the night.”

“Did you partake, Lord Aziraphale?”

“What? No, unfortunately, it was too much a big brother to be invited to such events. No little sister wants her older brothers around during fun with one’s friends.”

“That might have been because all her friends developed a case of puppy love upon meeting you,” Crowley replies, his eyes flashing once more with teasing delight.

“I am fairly sure that everyone knew, even when I was a pup, that no girl would ever catch my eye,” Aziraphale asserts and Crowley snorts his amusement.

Michael laughs from behind them as her husband trips over his own feet, then hers, and falls into Newt. The dance stops and the Dowager stops mid-bar.

“Oh goodness, are you all right?” she asks just as everyone else does the same.

Sandalphon is tremendously embarrassed and the dancing seems put aside for then. Like magic, as all good butlers are able to do, Mr. Shadwell appears with some sherry and glasses. The others are taking glasses and laughing. Aziraphale takes the moment to look at Crowley out of the corner of his eye.

“You said you played, Lord Crowley,” he says with heavy implication and a nod at the pianoforte.

“Why, yes, Lord Aziraphale, I do,” Crowley replies with just as much over-the-top emphasis.

It’s the best kind of playacting and Aziraphale is unable to keep from breaking out into a grin. “Would you play a duet with me?”

Crowley studies him, “Get me a glass of sherry and you have yourself a deal.”

“Consider it done, my dear boy!”

Which is how the party begins to give the two of them knowing looks.

“Might we have a minuet next,” Michael suggests.

Aziraphale begins to argue about playing, but he’s overridden. So he and Crowley dance the minuet together. If this were a public ball, no doubt the gossip would be humming.

“First, Lord Aziraphale and Lord Crowley dance as partners for two dances. Then, Lord Aziraphale got Lord Crowley a glass of sherry,” they would say. “Then they danced together again! Then, Lord Crowley was flushed and Lord Aziraphale encouraged him to sit down and found him a fan.”

Which was exactly what happened. Crowley is bright-eyed and flushed with happiness while Aziraphale cools him with the current of air from Anathema’s borrowed fan.

“That was fun,” Crowley laughs.

Before Aziraphale can reply, Gabriel approaches. He has a twinkle in his eye.

“Are you having a good time, brother mine?” Before Aziraphale can reply, Gabriel addresses Crowley. “And you, Lord Crowley, how is your first dance? I apologize that it’s not a ball.”

Crowley waves the apology away and leans toward Gabriel. “I must tell you: your brother is a terrible dancer,” the Omega admits as if it’s a secret. “He’s stepped on my slippers twice and gone the wrong direction in our last dance.”

Gabriel snickers, “I fear my brother is better with words than dance steps.”

Aziraphale puffs up in preparation to argue, but Crowley smiles at him and the bluster leaves him.

“He is a tremendous companion,” Crowley says, then ducks his flaming cheeks.

“It’s easy enough when the company is this fine,” Aziraphale agrees, brave from wine.

Gabriel steps back and takes them both in with a knowing look. “Lord Crowley, we are hosting a diverting weekend house party. It seems this may be new to you, so please, seek out my wife if you have need of anything. I hear there’s a picnic tomorrow? Dowling and I were planning to do some shooting in the afternoon. Aziraphale is handy in the sport himself. Perhaps we could entice you to join us?”

Crowley blanches suddenly. “I’d have to—“

“We’ll invite Lady Burningstone, of course. We would never overstep the bounds of propriety,” Gabriel interjects and Crowley seems to relax.

“She does not shoot,” Crowley admits. “But you could ask her. I’ve never shot, but I would be delighted to return. I find the company…” and here his words trail off as he looks up at Aziraphale, “ _more_ than diverting.”

He ducks his head again and a red curl slips loose of his coiffure. Aziraphale finds his throat tight at the sight. Gabriel shares a knowing look with his brother and excuses himself to rejoin the Dowlings.

“Do you enjoy… picnics?” Aziraphale asks, his voice sharp.

“I’ve never been on one,” Crowley answers, his cheeks still pink. “Short walks, sure, but not much. We are limited by my sister and I’s health troubles.”

Then it’s like he catches his own words and the smile disappears. “My sister _had_ health troubles,” he corrects.

“What was she like?” Aziraphale questions, gently. He sits on the bench beside Lord Crowley.

Crowley meets his eye and then looks down at his gloves. “Kind and funny. She was cleverer than me by bounds. Loved art. Loved animals.”

“You were twins, I believe?” Aziraphale continues, his voice is still soft.

“Yeah. My little sister by about eleven minutes.”

“You protected her,” Aziraphale says and it isn’t a question. “Even from that rainstorm that day.”

“You remember that?” Crowley asks, looking up in surprise. “I never forgot you, you know. You gave away your umbrella.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Aziraphale admits.

Crowley considers this and they’re quiet as the other people’s conversations surround them. “It might have been the right thing, but where did it get you? An admirer in me, certainly, but I’m not much of a catch.”

Before Aziraphale can argue, Crowley continues to speak of his sister. “She wasn’t strong. I mean, neither of us is—was. _Whatever_.” He sighs. “She would have loved to dance here with us tonight.”

“I take it you two never danced with your siblings after those country balls?” Aziraphale asks.

“No, we weren’t out, you know, in society, so they didn’t see any point in letting us join in,” Crowley admits smoothing his skirt. “Mother talked about presenting us when we were sixteen, but Ashtoreth lost her sight. Anyway, it never happened.”

“I’m sorry you felt that you missed much of society, but really, it was mostly sweaty people dancing and lots of people playing the piano and singing love songs. Many of them were truly terrible,” Aziraphale says, with humor.

Crowley shakes his head disbelievingly, but a smirk pulls at his mouth.

“And portrait drawing. That was the worst,” Aziraphale elaborates.

“People did that at a ball?” Crowley inquires incredulously.

“Smaller gathering, usually,” Aziraphale clarifies. “Did you ever have families come over for little get-togethers?”It’s another question that he wishes he could retract. “Forgive me, my dear. It seems you are kept very safe at home.”

Crowley snorts, “Very much _something_ at home.”

“As your family is so protective, perhaps we should check in on them?” Aziraphale suggests and stands.

“I’m sure I’ll get another lecture about throwing myself at you, but yes,” Crowley says dramatically.

Bemused, Aziraphale offers his arm to Crowley, who takes his elbow with a warm look in his eye. They reenter the drawing-room to see that Lady Burningstone and Lord Lucifer are both still at the card table. It’s apparent that the wagers have risen since they left and it appears that other players have much more in way of winnings than the Jayanthonys.

“Erm, this isn’t good,” Crowley comments at a low volume to Aziraphale.

“Why ever not, dear boy? It’s all in good fun—“

“Then you’ve not heard about our situation,” Crowley admits with a sad smile. He steps back into the saloon without releasing Aziraphale’s arm. “The Dame has gambled the fortune away. Whatever is left my brother had similarly dispatched.” He offers a shrug and another smile. “I’d earn my fortune if I could. I have no dowery, Lord Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale is not sure what to say in this situation. Often times gossip would center around an Alpha’s annual income as if this was information the wider world was privy to. However, it was uncommon for a peer in dangerous financial situations to admit to it—it was even less common for an Omega to admit to it while looking for a mate.

Crowley chuckles sadly, “Well that went down like a lead balloon.”

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale starts. “You misunderstand me. I’m just surprised that you’re so forthcoming.”

Crowley studies him, his eyes squinting. “I won’t lie to you, angel.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Come again?”

“I told you that you were an angel for not judging. This just, you know,” he waves his free hand, “cements my opinion. You’re an angel.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Aziraphale says, primly. “I’m just being a good person. You deserve that.”

“I don’t deserve anything,” Crowley argues, but it lacks any emotion to back it.

“Forgive me, all,” the Dowager interrupts the saloon guests, “I am an old Omega and cannot keep these late hours anymore. I’m headed home.”

“We’ll join you,” Michael decides and smiles at her mate.

He takes her hand and tucks into her side. She gives a possessive little growl that she attempts to shut off too late. A blush colors her cheeks and she looks away. Sandalphon, on the other hand, seems charmed. He touches the mating mark on his neck and smiles secretly to himself.

Goodbyes are given all around and the audience in the saloon watches the three collect their cloaks and coats and head out to the carriage. Lady Blanc hears them leave and joins them in the saloon.

“I missed speaking to them,” she says and Aziraphale notes that Crowley is surprised to hear her disappointment.

“They’ll return tomorrow for the picnic,” Uriel says brightly and Blanc smiles.

“You know, I’m quite tired myself. Travel always does me in,” Lady Dowling decides and she heads into the drawing-room to tell her husband that she’s going to bed.

The card players abandon the drawing-room at this point and the party is officially breaking for the night. Lucifer storms out with Blanc trailing him.

He speaks to her in a terse whisper, “Just write to your father. It’s a small loan.”

She looks ready to cry, “But I already did and he—“

“ _Omega_ ,” he growls and the saloon is silenced.

This what Aziraphale hates about secondary genders. This ability for society to remove self-preservation from an endangered group of people. Omegas by biological abilities are simply able to carry children, this makes them no less human than any other. Yet, with this ability, laws, and beliefs have mutated until abuse is acceptable. And, judging by the spark of smoky fear that he smells breaking through Crowley’s scent cuffs, this is at least psychological abuse.

Aziraphale shouldn’t be surprised. According to the limited details that the Omega has shared with him this evening, in conjunction with the events that corresponded with their first meeting, that sort of abuse was part of life at Tophet. Everyone looks away from Lord Lucifer and his wife as they continue to converse in whispers by the grandfather clock.

Lady Burningstone finally seems to have remembered that her Omega son is with her and has been without a family chaperone for most of the night.

“Crowley,” she calls, but her voice isn’t hard or angry to Aziraphale’s relief, just instructive. “It’s long past the time any Omega should be in bed. These sort of late nights are acceptable for mates, not singletons.”

Mr. Shadwell rings for the Omega’s maids and two appear. One is employed by Lady Dowling and she curtsies to her mistress, and the other is Zionview Grove’s first housekeeper, Eve, who will assist Lord Crowley. They each come up from below stairs with a chamberstick and the flames light their faces. Lady Dowling and her Omega’s maid speak quietly to one another as they ascend the stairs. Without waiting for permission, Aziraphale escorts Crowley to the grand staircase, which sits in the center of the room. The first housemaid Eve waits for him there. Crowley walks at his side, with his own off-kilter amble. He does not leave on Aziraphale but seems reassured all the same. When they reach the follow of the stairs, the Omega squeezes his arm and releases him.

“You remember where your room is?” he asks as Crowley gathers his skirt in one hand and lifts it to climb the stairs. It’s a foolish question, he thinks, for Eve no doubt knows where he is sleeping.

“Frontby: Omega?” Crowley recites, but it’s a question.

“We only have two Omega guest rooms, so that seems plausible,” Aziraphale replies and sees Eve nod. “Good night, Lord Crowley. Dream of whatever you like best!”

Crowley pauses on the landing between the turn in the stairs and looks down at the Alpha. “Good night, Lord Aziraphale.”

He stands there a moment before giving a low curtsy and continuing up to the rooms above. Aziraphale returns the bow, then watches him until he disappears from sight. When he turns around, everyone else in the party is watching him. He rubs his hand over his face.

“I’m going to read for an hour,” he decides and walks past all the guests and his brother. “Good night.”

The company all choruses their own good night wishes and several decide to return to another game of cards. Aziraphale ignores them as he closes the door to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- Regency Houseparties were insane. First, the families who hosted them regularly went into crippling debt and could never pay them off. They lasted about four days and included everything from balls, multi-course meals, hunts, and music.   
> \- Candles are a very highly taxed item in this time period (and also windows, but that's another story). Those period films with huge amounts of candles? Insanely expensive. That was a huge show of wealth. More likely that the staff in charge of the "candle room" was responsible for making them last as long as possible. That included giving lesser candles for the dressing table and below stairs (and when there were not guests).  
> \- The Farm Reform Bill referenced here is actually a whole line of them that were supposed to actually help the farmers who leased the land from the peers. Unfortunately, many of them never got off the ground.  
> \- Downton Abbey and Victoria (I watch too much TV) suggest the way dining was served in later years. At this time though, it was a polite mob for dinner. Dancing partners usually sat together. All the food was already on the table but was served in courses. You were expected to try everything, but not to finish it. The "turning" during dinner I mention is from later in history, but I stole it because I needed it for the plot. Thanks, Edwardian diners!  
> \- Students at Oxford or Cambridge dressed in specific attire to denote their level in society. High society wore gold tassels, but poor folks studying on scholarship had no tassle. Of course, women were not allowed to attend, so an Omega would have to deny who they were to get in.   
> \- Women were not supposed to get drunk in this era, which I'm sure was a challenge in light of booze being served with every course. Maderia is a fortified wine. Ratafia and Orgeat are historic, non (or lesser) alcoholic beverages from this period.  
> \- Regency dancing is also a rabbit hole of research. There are, if someone is so inclined to research, entire websites dedicated to the songs and dances of the era. (Pajama balls were really a thing too!)  
> \- Dowery in this time period was also known as "pin money" (I'll refer to it this way later). It's the money the bride's family gives to her per month to keep her living in the way she is accustomed.


	5. Chapter 5

Lord Crowley and Eve follow Lady Dowling and her Omega’s maid up to the first floor. It’s dark with the limited light from the chamberstick.

“Did you enjoy your evening, my lord?” Eve asks.

“I did. We danced,” he replies, his voice soft.

He finds that he’s tired, so he’s glad that it’s not a long walk to his room. Eve opens the door to the Frontby Suite and they enter. This is his mother’s bedroom, but he can see little from the chamberstick in Eve’s hand. He glanced furtively around when they arrived and found it comfortable. The Dame was pleased if nothing else.

The Omega Suite is only accessible from inside his chaperone’s room. It’s frustrating—just another limitation from his secondary gender. This is just another slight at his loss of independence.

Nevertheless, the room itself not the austere accommodations that he’d expected. When they step inside, Eve uses her chamberstick to light the one at the bedside and then the pair of _toilet_ candlesticks on Crowley’s dressing table. He studies the room as it better illuminates. The fire is already banked, but the pair of wooden chairs before it looks like a nice place to read. The dressing table is mirrored—an extravagance that impressed him when he first saw it. It is close enough to the fireplace to ensure little draft. Behind him, the bed is the main occupier of the space, It’s a modest thing with cornice hangings that will curtain around his upper body, should he choose to close them. The fabric is not to his tastes. It’s white with delicate pink posies interspaced in trim black lines. The same fabric upholsters the armed chair at the foot of the bed. The room also has a tallboy chest of drawers, a washbasin, and a chamber pot hidden in a cabinet.

“The necessary is in the garden, of course,” Eve says, noting his interest in the cabinet. “In the day, I mean.”

Crowley nods. He would never leave the house in the dark. The Dame would filet him, but it also seemed far too cold a proposition. He toes off his dancing slippers and wiggles his stockinged feet in the carpet.

Eve moves behind him and begins to unpin his dress. “Below stairs is all a buzz how this was your presentation.”

“I suppose it was,” Crowley answers as she pulls the dress over his head.

His shift follows it and Eve helps him into his nightshirt and dressing gown.With a guiding hand, Even pushes him onto the stool at the dressing table and begins to take down his hair. He lifts his nightshirt and unties the laces at this above-knee stockings while she does. Once done, he turns to the scent cuffs at his wrists. It’s a relief to have them off.

“Lord Aziraphale complimented your work,” Crowley says, catching her eye in the looking glass.

Eve smiles and removes the pair of combs and sets them on the tabletop. “Your hair is lovely, my lord.”

Crowley smiles. “Thank you.”

Eve pulls the ribbon free and selects Crowley’s brush from the table. “It’s more likely that Lord Aziraphale was complimenting that than my handiwork.”

Crowley stammers and Eve laughs as she brushes his hair. Once content, she braids it in a loose plait and ties off the end with a ribbon. She finds his woolen nightcap and places it securely on his head.

“There, my lord!”

“Thank you, Eve.”

“I’ll see you in the morning then. I was thinking we’d do your hair half up,” she explains and pulls his plait over his shoulder as an example.

Crowley clears his throat. “You’ll help me dress for every change?”

Eve smiles at him in the mirror. “I’d be happy to, your lordship.”

Crowley is still taken aback by this. Eve carries on, cheerfully as she collects his shift, evening gown, stockings, and scent cuffs. “Do you wake early? I’m afraid I have morning duties to attend to—“

“I can get myself ready for breakfast,” Crowley interrupts then softens his gaze as he stands from the dressing table. “I tend to take my correspondence in the morning, but I usually have tea. I admit that, at home, I simply go to the kitchens for it. I’m at a loss as to protocol here.”

Eve looks at him with a mixture of kindness and understanding. Crowley theorizes that the servants have also determined what sort of life he lives at Tophet. She bends down and collects his dancing slippers.

“Once you’re dressed, my lord, go down to the Library or drawing room and ring the bell. Someone will bring you your tea there,” she says with a smile. “Some bread too, I assume. It’s much too long of a morning before breakfast without something to eat.”

“Forgive me, Eve, but when is breakfast in a big house like this?”

“The Marquess of Fellthrop has the buffet scheduled at 10 AM, my lord. I believe that Lady Fellthrop will be taking breakfast in bed, as is her inclination after a late-night such as this,” Eve says before walking over to the dressing table and snuffing the candles there.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, before the picnic?” Crowley asks.

“Until then, my lord. Sleep well.” She bobs a quick curtsy.

“Thank you. Good night, Eve,” he says as she makes her exit.

Crowley waits until the door is firmly shut before removing his dressing gown and sliding under the duvet. The mattress is firmer than his own at home. He bounces on it a little before setting in the center. With a smile, he fluffs the pillows then extinguishes the candle. Crowley snuggles down and begins to review the night’s events. Dining and dancing out in society, it’s a dream he’d never expected to come true.

More enticingly is the food-loving, kind gentleman Alpha who seems to find him attractive and interesting. Crowley gives a shiver of delight and tries to go to sleep.

He must nod off at some point because when the chambermaid enters to refresh the fire at dawn, he startles awake. Her eyes grow huge and she shuffles backward.

  
“Come on in,” he says gruffly and rubs his eyes. “I’m not used to having help with my fire.”

She gives a quick curtsy and hurries to her work. Crowley settles back into his bed and pulls the duvet back over his shoulders. The maid opens the shutters and grey dawn lights the room. He gives into the pleasant drowse as he listens to her go about her job. The room warms and he slips back into a deeper sleep. When he wakes properly sometime later, he’s surprised when he stretches and sees the room is brighter than before. With a yawn, he slips out of bed. This was a treat. He loves to nap and sleep late, but as much as he'd like to, he rarely lingers in bed at home.

Warm water is in his pitcher. It’s a shade or two too cold, which suggests that he slept much harder than expected--he didn't hear that maid enter with the hot water. He strips and pours the water into the basin. Using a flannel, he sets to work wetting and scrubbing his body using the provided soap ball. It’s time-consuming and he’s chilled when finished, so he stands by the fire to dry himself. Crowley leaves his hair plaited to dress.

His attire is all traditional Omega wear for this trip, at his mother’s insistence. He dons tight-legged trousers (which are decidedly not knee-breeches, to his disappointment) and a long shift that drapes over his thighs.

They’re all new, as they’d visited the haberdashery for this long weekend. He wonders where the money for the new wardrobe came from as he selects one of his new long shirts, which flares at the thighs. It’s the traditional cut in dark gray with silver and black stripes. Mr. Doubleerik had known Crowley loathed the secondary gender-specific attire and had convinced the Dame to order her son a waistcoat. Crowley grabs it with greedy hands now and slides it on. It’s dark black velvet, and, for once, he feels like a proper gentleman.

Once dressed, he unties his hair and brushed it until it shines. He considers it, before deciding to simply tie it in a tail using a wide black ribbon. He slaps his dark tinted glasses on his face, sticks his feet are in socks and boots, and his hands in gloves. And then he’s at a loss. He’d hoped to write to Beelzebub, but lacks any stationary or other writing supplies. He considers his options before deciding to head down to the study and borrow some. He grabs his needlepoint and, as an afterthought to how Mrs. Young would fuss, a shawl. It's not a gentleman's tailcoat, but he's allowed to own one according to the Dame.

Speaking of his mother, she would hate the concept of him escaping his room without her. He has to move with stealth. With his hand on the doorknob, he turns it slowly and opens it at the same speed. The Dame is asleep on her back, still in her evening wear, snoring in a way that suggests far more Port than Crowley remembers her drinking. Even so, he moves carefully and opens the door into the hall with the same care. Once he’s in the hallway and the door is closed, he exhales and walks with a bit more swagger. His left hip twinges. All the travel combined with dancing the night prior has left him stiffer than usual.

With a wince, Crowley takes himself downstairs and stops to read the large grandfather clock at the base of the stairs. It’s a half to nine and he doubts many people will be up. Crowley considers which room will more likely have writing supplies and makes his way to the library.

The door slides open and Lord Crowley enters while taking in his surroundings. To him, reading is a necessary evil and his sister always enjoyed it more than he did. Texts are hard to focus on with his eye deficiencies. Even still, the library is impressive. He walks slowly and takes in the many shelves of texts and the crackling fire.

“Good morning, my dear!” welcomes a posh, happy voice.

Crowley spins and sees Lord Aziraphale hunched over a writing desk adjacent to a window. He’s still dressed in his evening wear from the night before, although he’s loosened his cravat.

“Good morning to you as well, Lord Aziraphale,” Crowley replies with a curtsey. “I see you’ve not been to bed.”

Lord Aziraphale pulls spectacles from his nose and folds them up. “Yes, it seems the hours slipped away from me again.” He peers out the window at his side. Fog lingers on the fields beyond the glass, but the sun looks to be attempting to breakthrough. “It’s a terrible habit, I’m afraid. The written word is something of a drug of mine. I begin with one book, then find myself three texts deep as I cross-reference for my study.”

Crowley ambles closer and examines the books on Aziraphale’s desk. “And what has caught your fancy and kept you up all night?”

Aziraphale settles back in his chair and lays his glasses on the desk. “Marriage law.”

Crowley can’t help but feel a warm burn of anticipation. “Oh?”

“Hmm, yes, well, I had questions about courting initiation, courting gifts, and such,” he clarifies as he arranges his pile of books.

Crowley leans his hip on the edge of the desk. “And you’ve learned all about how the Omega only wants to be bred and likes shiny objects?” His voice takes on a hardened, disappointed edge. Perhaps Lord Aziraphale is just like every other Alpha he’s ever known.

“Well, no, actually. I’ve learned the history behind those beliefs and how that antiquated thinking has developed into laws. I’ve discovered that the candle tax,” and here Aziraphale taps one of his collection of notes, “is higher on courting gifts that include beeswax. Strange, is it not?”

“Why would anyone want beeswax for a courting gift?” Crowley asks with a confused, scrunched nose.

At this, Aziraphale chuckles. “Perhaps some, but not you, it appears.”

“Er, no, sorry,” Crowley replies, but with a shrug. “No need for it, really.”

“And what do you have need for then, my dear boy?” Aziraphale asks sweetly, but curiously.

“At this moment, stationary and quill pen,” Crowley answers with a smirk.

“That is not much of a courting present. You understand, my dear, that those gifts are intended to show an Omega that what they need will be not only be provided,” Aziraphale explains as he opens the main drawer of his desk, “but what they fancy will be given too.” He hands over four pages of the cream-colored paper he selected from the drawer. Crowley’s eyes open wide.

“I don’t need that much paper, Lord Aziraphale,” he argues. “It’s too expensive—“

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale argues and presses the paper into his hand. He shuffles aside his own notes until he finds his ink well and quill pen. “Here you are, Lord Crowley.”

“It’s just Crowley, actually,” he corrects as he reaches across to take these supplies.

It’s at that moment that he realizes that he has forgotten to wear his scent cuffs. The close contact between his bare wrist and the Alpha’s nose is apparently. Aziraphale inhales deeply and closes his eyes in pleasure. Their hands, while Crowley's are gloved, make contact over the ink well. Deliberately, Aziraphale sets the quill pen and ink down and carefully takes Crowley’s hand in his. He turns it over and rests his nose on Crowley’s wrist scent gland and breathes deeply with closed eyes.

Crowley’s heart is hammering, but he doesn’t dare move. He studies the fan of Aziraphale's eyelashes and the slight flush that colors his cheekbones. He's breathtaking. Then, suddenly, with lightning speed, Aziraphale jumps up, toppling his chair and disengages his hand. He leaps backward and nearly presses himself against the wall.

“My dear Lord Crowley, please forgive my impropriety,” he begs and hurries to ring the bell by the fireplace. “We should never have been without a chaperone.”

“Lord Aziraphale, please, it’s all right. Nothing happened,” Crowley says, rushing to soothe the Alpha.

“And nothing will that would besmirch your good name. You are a respectable man and I will not have idle gossip change your future, Crowley,” Aziraphale answers, holding up his hand to stop the Omega from coming closer. “I have overstepped.”

“I,” Crowley’s voice shifts and he clears this throat because his tone is nearly a whine, “don’t mind.”

Aziraphale's hazel eyes darken a fraction and Crowley stretches his unencumbered hand out again to the Alpha. Aziraphale seems to be considering stepping toward him when the door opens and Shadwell enters. It startles them both and they turn the door guiltily. Aziraphale faces him with near frantic, nervous energy.

“Shadwell, Lord Crowley, and I find ourselves without a chaperone. We also could do with something to keep us until breakfast,” he dithers, as he fidgets with his cravat.

The butler gives an unshakable nod and waves in the hall until a footman approaches. “Johnson,” he hails, a slight Scottish accent, “bring up some ale—“

“And chocolate, if you would?” Aziraphale calls out into the hall past the butler. “Some cake too?” The Aziraphale faces Crowley again, “What do you drink in the morning? Chocolate? Ale?”

“Ngk, tea, actually,” Crowley admits, awkwardly hugging the cream sheets of paper to his chest.

“Of course, Lord Crowley,” Shadwell replies.

“Shadwell!” Lucifer calls from across the saloon as he lopes down the grand staircase. “Bring me some bread and ale!”

Crowley retreats to a table on the opposite side of the room from Aziraphale’s desk. He snags the quill pen and ink well as he passes. With all the grace he can manage, he sets up his stationary, opens the ink, and dips his quill pen. He begins his letter and continues writing as if he’d been doing so the entire time. As he concentrates on crafting beautiful handwriting, he wills his breathing to slow.

“Good morning, Lord Lucifer,” Aziraphale greets the Alpha as he marches into the library just in front of Johnson returns with a tray of breakfast items.

“Lord Aziraphale,” Lucifer replies, “oh, hello, _darling_ ,” he also greets when he sees his little brother. The word is a question: why are you down alone? Crowley ignores this.

“Morning, brother,” Crowley says instead, tapping his quill on the edge of the ink well before standing and offering a quick curtsy.

“Bah, none of that. I’ve got a pain in my head and no interest in Omega-simpering-rubbish,” Lucifer says and Aziraphale opens his mouth to rebuke him, but the other Alpha is already on to the next thing. “Ah, ale! Good man!”

He grabs his glass directly from Johnson’s tray and tosses it back greedily. He snags a chunk of bread with the other hand and throws himself onto the sofa by the fireplace with a grunt. Crowley resumes his seat, then collects his pen once more. As he does, Lucifer lifts his head and sniffs the air.

“Ugh, Crowley, you stink. Go change your scent cuffs,” Lucifer growls. “It’s like a cedar chest in here.”

Crowley pauses writing, “I’ll just finish my letter.”

“No, _Omega_ , get your arse upstairs and change,” Lucifer snarls and Crowley is helpless but to drop his pen at the use of that Alpha tone.

It makes his inner animal freeze and long to bear its throat. He hates the reaction, but sometimes the innate responses are impossible to ignore.

Aziraphale, however, is not amused. “Lord Crowley is among friends. We do not dictate wearing scent cuffs in this house.” Before Lucifer can reply, however, Aziraphale continues, “Besides, he needs his breakfast. Cake or bread, my dear?”

“My dear?” mimics Lucifer, only this is a challenge. “That’s a little forward for an Alpha to call an unmated Omega.”

Crowley decides to leg it out to avoid dealing with Alphas about to posture and growl. He quickly signs his letter and stuffs it, unfolded, into his waistcoat. He stands.

“Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” he asks and flees before Lucifer’s can escalate.

He takes the steps two at a time, ignoring the sharp pain in his hip as he does so, and hurries down the hallway. However, once outside his mother’s door, he pauses to calm his breath. With the same cautious movements as before, he opens the Dame’s door and slips inside, then repeats the movement for his own room. He doesn’t latch either door, deciding it would be prudent to slip out faster that way.

Once in his room, he pulls out the letter he’d begun and holds it as close to the window as he can to reread it.

_My dear Lord Aziraphale,_

_It is traditional to begin these letters with tedium, so I will skip that and write what I set out to. Forgive my forwardness of this letter, but I am nothing less than frank. I hold you in very high regard. Thank you for the dances last night and for our discussion this morning. While courting gifts are traditionally given to the Omega, I hope this small token of my admiration for our growing acquaintance is well received._

_Crowley_

He’d wanted to add more, but Lucifer had torn in like a bat out of hell. Additionally, he has no idea what he planned to add to the letter as a gift. And how was he to pass it to Aziraphale now that his brother was in the room? Crowley sinks down onto his dressing chair and stares morosely at his reflection. The Dame’s whistling snores echo through the door he left ajar. He’d be lucky if he snuck by her a second time, let alone deliver the note in secret. He swallows and looks around his dressing table. He could use the candles for the sealing wax, but nothing else there would help him.

Then his eyes catch a corner of white fabric. Crowley leans down and finds that one of his scent cuffs from the previous evening had escaped Eve’s cleaning. He lifts it to his nose—yes, clearly his pine scent. It holds some traces of his anxiety, so he pulls back the sleeve of his shirt and scents the cuff with fresh oil. Yes, that will do, he thinks, before tucking it into the paper and folding it into an envelope. With decisive action, he grabs one of the candles from his dressing table and holds it over the embers of his fire. As it begins to melt, he drips it onto the fold of his letter.he lets it cool before pressing his finger into the wax puddle. It’s no seal symbol, but it will do as he sees the faint whirl pattern.

He tucks the letter in his waistcoat once more and returns the candle. Then he laces on his clean scent cuffs. He hides them under his shirt sleeves and tiptoes from his room. When he successfully slips back into the main hallway without waking his mother a second time,he gives a hop of joy and punches the air.

“Yes!” he exclaims in a whisper, excited.

“Lord Crowley?” someone asks and Crowley whips around.

A footman stands two meters away, visibly amused at Crowley’s private celebration.

“Er, good morning,” he greets with a shy lift of his hand.

The movement somehow shakes his letter free and it floats down to the floor where it lands, Aziraphale’s name faces up. The footman sees it and gives a knowing smirk.

“Would you like me to deliver that, Lord Crowley?” he asks.

“Nkg, what?” Crowley stutters, surprised.

“I can take this to Lord Aziraphale—I’ll make it look like the post, no one else will know,” he describes before leaning down to collect the letter. “It’s part of the house party, you know? Lord Gabr—I mean Lord Fellthrop sent all sorts of love letters to Lady Fellthrop when they spent the weekend here courting.”

“I don’t have any coin,” Crowley says slowly, patting his pockets.

The footman smiles and waves it off. “Don’t worry yourself. Lord Aziraphale will probably slip me more than enough when he sends his reply.”

Crowley feels his blush color his face. “I need to get downstairs.”

“Good day, Lord Crowley,” the footman says with a sharp bow.

“Er, yeah, you too. And, hey, thanks.”

The footman grins and hurries off as Crowley heads in the opposite direction. He shives a shaky exhale at the top of the staircase, then descends with a slight limp. The stairs are really troublesome today. When he reenters, Lucifer is alone in the library. Crowley looks around for Aziraphale discretely as he selects a piece of bread for his breakfast. Disappointed, he heads back to his seat with his stationery supplies.

“Lord Aziraphale already fixed your tea,” his brother comments, his tone lazy. “He’s sweet on you.”

Crowley doesn’t know how to reply, so he simply takes his bread to his seat. Indeed, a cup of tea, prepared exactly as he likes, sits waiting for him.

“What? No comment, little brother?” Lucifer asks, silkily.

Crowley must tread carefully, as his brother can and will twist any of his words. Internally, he keeps up a mantra of “shitshitshitshitshit”, but there’s no articulating this.

“Lord Aziraphale is a respectful Alpha and a good man. I’m enjoying making his acquaintance,” he says mindfully.

If only his brother knew what he has written just moments before. Lucifer would have an attack or some sort of fit. Crowley sips his tea to avoid further conversation. Lucifer will not be so easily dissuaded it appears.

"I expect that you'll do so without causing a reputation-ruining scandal? You're already practically salivating over him," he sniffs before draining his ale. “Damn that Shadwell,” Lucifer curses and jumps up to ring the bell. “I asked for _the Alpha’s Morning Courier_ half an hour ago.”

Aziraphale enters the library then, freshly attired in a new white muslin shirt, tan velvet waistcoat, and light brown tailcoat. His cravat is a clean and crisp white, but Crowley thinks it might have lacy frills. It makes him smile into his teacup.

“Ah, Lord Crowley, I’m glad you’ve rejoined us,” he says waving his hands a little as he speaks.

Crowley shouldn’t be charmed. He is. Lucifer sighs dramatically, rolls his eyes at their interaction, and stabs his bread with a toasting fork.

“I just want the bloody paper,” he snarls and thrusts the bread into the fireplace.

Instead of toasting, it immediately is aflame and Crowley spectates, bemused, from his seat. Aziraphale also watches, although his expression is nothing short of disdain. Crowley drinks more tea to hide his telling smirk. It seems that Lord Aziraphale is just enough of a bastard to entertain. The door opens again, this time for the footman from the hallway upstairs. Crowley’s heart stops. However, the footman does not even look in Crowley’s direction. Instead, he extends a little silver plate to Aziraphale with a quick bow.

“Thank you, Wensleydale,” Aziraphale replies as he takes the note.

Afraid of seeing Lord Aziraphale’s face as he reads, Crowley hurries to get another piece of bread from the tray. As he does, he grabs another slice for Lucifer as well.

“You there, where is my paper?” Lucifer demands of the footman Wensleydale.

They have some additional exchanges, but Crowley cannot focus on that. Aziraphale has his letter. He hears Aziraphale break the wax and unfold the paper. Aziraphale gives a surprised gasp and Crowley speaks to cover it up.

“Here you are,” he says magnanimously to Lucifer. “Try holding the fork more over the hearth and less in the flames.”

“I’ve been toasting bread longer than you’ve been alive,” he replies snidely and sticks the bread onto the fork.

Crowley shrugs and returns to his seat while his brother burns another piece of toast. When he sits down, he arranges himself carefully so that his chair is more parallel with the table than under it, then, trying not to hurry, he looks at Aziraphale.

The Alpha has his scent cuff in his hand. Elegantly and purposefully, he wraps the ribbon laces around his fingers as if the very movement is worth savoring. Then he looks up and locks eyes with Crowley. With the same deliberate, unhurried movements, Aziraphale brings the cuff to his nose. His eyes never leave Crowley’s, but they take on a predatory gaze. Crowley isn’t frightened, but he feels his heart race. Aziraphale holds the cuff there and inhales deeply. His cheeks redden and his lips part as he takes deeper and quicker breaths. He licks his lips, then removes his handkerchief, a large linen Kent from his pocket, and carefully folds Crowley’s scent cuff into it. He blinks at Crowley slowly, before returning the wrapped cuff protectively into his pocket. He keeps his hand over his pocket as if guaranteeing no one can take it from him.

“Would you have some chocolate or ale, Lord Crowley?” he says, nearly a purr.

“No, Lord Aziraphale, he would not,” Lucifer asserts, eating his burnt bread. “He’s an Omega. He’ll drink tea.”

This seems to shock Aziraphale out of his predacious moment. He rolls his eyes and Crowley snorts, which earns him a glare from his brother.

“Come now, dear sir, there’s nothing wrong with either drink in the morning. Chocolate is bitter but is to some people’s tastes. And ale is healthy,” Aziraphale argues.

“And so is tea,” Lucifer declares.

Crowley catches Aziraphale’s eye and gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. The Alpha sighs, giving up the topic. Lady and Lord Device arrive, followed by Shadwell, who presents Lucifer with his newspaper.

“About time,” Lucifer replies, snatching the pages from Shadwell. “It’s not like you have to print the damn thing yourself.”

“Lord Lucifer,” Lady Device reprimands, “there are Omegas present. Mind your tongue.”

Lucifer stares hard at Aziraphale’s cousin before disappearing behind the newspaper pages. Shadwell simply gives a respectful incline of his head, unruffled.

“Breakfast will be served in one hour,” he reminds before stepping back against the wall.

“I think I’ll have some tea then take a morning stroll,” Lady Device announces. “Would anyone care to join me?”

Incited by the suggestion, her husband and Aziraphale strike up a conversation about the possible route. While they do, Crowley considers the paper before him. He should write to Beelzebub. He selects one page and turns it carefully.

“You’re welcome to keep the ink set, you know,” Aziraphale says to him as he rises for more chocolate. “You could take it to your room or continue to work here. Please, I insist.”

Crowley is caught wrong-footed again. “I appreciate that, Lord Aziraphale. There is no work table in my room, but—“

“That won’t do,” Aziraphale says with a frown. “Shadwell, is there a small work table we can sort out for Lord Crowley’s room?”

“Of course, my lord. Lord Crowley, I will have it delivered to your room after breakfast,” Shadwell informs.

Crowley chokes out his gratitude. “I don’t mean to put anyone out—“

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale states. “You must have time to center yourself away from others and take care of personal matters, such as correspondence.”

As he says the final word, Aziraphale raises one eyebrow and pats the pocket where he has secreted away Crowley’s scent cuff. Crowley feels the flush of his cheeks and hops up to refill his teacup.

“I thank you then,” he finally says as they stand next to one another.

He hears the soft rumble of Aziraphale’s answering growl before he forces himself to cough and cut the growl short. Crowley’s hands tremble as he attempts to lift the teapot from the tray. This was not the posturing of an Alpha ready to fight or lay claim, that was the sound of pleasure that the Alpha mate gives to his Omega. Crowley surreptitiously raises his wrist to his nose and sniffs his scent cuff. It’s nearly soaked through with his immediate attraction to that growl. Seeing the action makes Aziraphale reach over to assist him with the teapot. His eyes sparkle with mischief as he fills Crowley's teacup and adds the proper amount of cream and sugar.

Crowley risks a glance at Aziraphale, who is watching him covertly. He gives an embarrassed grimace. Crowley’s inner Omega grunts with displeasure. He wanted to hear that all of that growl—it was _for_ him, after all. He rolls his shoulders back and gives an encouraging smile in return. Aziraphale’s responds in kind; it is like the sun returning from behind a cloud.

"Will you join us for our stroll around the house, Lord Crowley?" he asks, holding out the teacup and saucer to the Omega.

"I'd like that," Crowley says as he takes the items again.

Their fingertips brush and it's like a zing of electricity through Crowley's gloves.

"We'll stay close to the house," Lady Device decides. "It sounds like we have some other exercise throughout the day. I wouldn't want to wear anyone out too early."

Crowley frowns in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. His body will not take well to extensive exercise, no matter how he'd like to hike these grounds and park. He hates that others know it though.

"I appreciate it," Lord Device answers. "I am still worn out from the travel and the late night. I might be a bit of a layabout today."

Crowley chastises himself for such impropriety and selfish thinking. Clearly, the Alpha is more concerned about her husband than anyone else.

"Let me finish my chocolate and I'll be ready," Aziraphale announces. "I am at your leisure whenever you'd like to strike out."

It turns out that it doesn't take terribly long thereafter. Lady and Lord Device forgo any sustenance in fear of ruining their appetites for the formal breakfast. They agree to meet in the saloon in the next few minutes before beginning their walk. Lucifer sniffs at them and goes to check on his wife. While the others gather hats and shawls, Crowley excuses himself for the chamber pot.

Like many of these grand houses, the chamber pot sits in its cabinet on the far side of the room behind a screen. Free from embarrassment due to the empty room, the Omega pulls off his gloves, undoes the ties on his trousers, and takes a piss. Once finished, he sets to the process of making himself presentable again. He hears the door open and is paralyzed by Aziraphale's tone of voice.

"Lord Lucifer, we will continue this conversation away from public ears, sir."

Aziraphale has clearly tugged his brother into the room to avoid being overheard. He does not sound pleased about their topic, however.

“Lord Aziraphale,” Lucifer says, his tone suddenly pedantic and amused, “we must talk about your intentions toward my brother. You're being... inappropriate, to say the least."

Aziraphale sputters, "I protest, sir--"

Lucifer cuts him off, however, "Making eyes at him and encouraging him to make a fool of himself. No one doubts his attraction to you from the way he's flirting with you."

"Forgive me, sir, but you are mistaken. Your brother has done nothing immodest--"

Crowley knows that Aziraphale is lying, and his heart rate accelerates. What if Lucifer already knows about his letter and is about to incriminate them both.

"You make him tea," Lucifer accuses, "it's unbecoming for an Alpha."

Aziraphale clears his throat, “I have always thought that courting is an opportunity to show an Omega how their spouse will care for them."

"And you'll be Crowley's teaboy? Pshaw, I think you're soft on him." Lucifer replies with another laugh. “Then again, any idiot willing to consider marrying my darling brother must be a touch tender--”

There is defensive Alpha rage in Aziraphale's tone when he returns, in a low voice, "You will not call Lord Crowley such a name again."

Crowley hears them move, but no one speaks for a moment. "So you do intend to court my brother?" Lucifer asks.

"I intended to ask your mother in the traditional way—“

“What, with the intention to court announcements and courting gifts and that whole lot? Nah, trust me. If you wanted to sign the marriage papers tomorrow, you could. He’s all yours,” Lucifer assures him with a slap to Aziraphale’s back. "Mother will of course want to set the bride price higher than most. Crowley is her only Omega child."

Crowley stands there, hidden behind the screen with his hands hanging limp at his side. Bride prices are archaic. In fact, some laws were enacted to stop child Omega bride engagements some two hundred years before.

"Forgive me, sir," Aziraphale says primly, "but did you say 'bride price'?"

Lucifer's voice is smug, "As I said, Crowley is her only Omega--"

"He is not being purchased. He is no slave!" Aziraphale argues, incensed. "I want to court him, not buy him!"

"It's not buying... think of it as--"

Aziraphale reaches his bullshit tolerance, "Crowley will not be 'purchased'. He is his own man and may accept or deny my courting. I will make my intention known to your mother, but I will also ask him. I will not subject him to my courting without his permission."

Lucifer is silent. Aziraphale is exhaling like bellows, trying to control his anger. He moves closer to the room divider. Crowley hears him scents the air.

"Now, if you will leave me," Aziraphale orders, neatly.

Lucifer grunts and storms out with the last word, "We will set a bride price and let you know before dinner."

Crowley fidgets with tying his gloves, then hides his face in his hands. He hears Aziraphale on the other side of the screen.

"My dear?" Aziraphale asks. "I'm terribly sorry you had to hear that. It was not the way I wanted to bring the topic up to you. However, once he launched into it in the saloon... I thought it best not discussed in front of company. I didn't know you were back there until I smelled your distress."

Crowley rubs his face with his hands.

"Crowley, will you come out?" Aziraphale asks carefully.

Crowley reaches back and pushes the screen further open so that Aziraphale can join him. The Alpha only hesitates for a moment before he steps behind the room divider. His hand hovers over Crowley's shoulder before cupping it.

"I hope I haven't said anything that has distressed you--"

"No," Crowley clarifies, his voice cracking, "no, you are a perfect gentleman."

"I am in no way perfect," Aziraphale argues, mildly.

Crowley gives a quick "ha!" of laughter, before continuing, "You're a perfect angel. You really are."

They're quiet, Aziraphale touching Crowley's shoulder and Crowley shivering minutely at the connection.

"And you're perfect for me, Crowley," Aziraphale replies, sincerely. "I hope that is not too forward." He pats his pocket where Crowley's gifted scent cuff hides. "I think I understood your interest in the same way."

Crowley turns to stare Aziraphale directly in the face. His hands fall to his side as he speaks, “You didn't misunderstand me or my interest, but you need to know that I'm not some normal Omega. I’ll get sick. A lot. Every winter, my sister and I would be practically bedridden with every fever that came through. I can’t walk or dance for long. My hips and my back… I don’t even know if I can carry children. You don’t want to court _me_ —”

“Hush,” Aziraphale interrupts, his hands catching Crowley’s own. “You’re suggesting these things are obstacles that cannot be surpassed.”

Crowley snorts, “What Alpha doesn’t want pups?”

“I cannot speak for others, but fatherhood is not the only thing I want to gain from a marriage,” Aziraphale admits. “I’d always wanted time to get to know my mate before we even thought about a family. And, since we're being honest, I need to tell you something about myself."

He squeezes Crowley's hands that are held tenderly in his own. Aziraphale nervously clears his throat and speaks, "You know that I was in the war. I was badly injured from cannon fire--it forced me to retire."

Crowley looks over Aziraphale, worried. The Alpha chuckles lightly, "Mostly my leg and hip, but I, hmm, suffered some, we'll say 'trauma'. Summarize to say, it's likely that I am sterile. Believe me, Crowley, my dear, when I say 'if children don’t come, then children don’t come', then it may be to protect my own ego.”

Crowley’s mouth is agape. Aziraphale looks away, his eyes seeing past Crowley with embarrassment. He squeezes Crowley's hands again and lets them drop. "I believe this has colored your judgment of me."

Crowley shakes his head quickly and grabs Aziraphale's hands once again, "No, forgive me, I am so surprised I've no idea what to say."

Aziraphale still will not look at him, "Now that you know this, you will not accept my intention to court you then."

Crowley lifts Aziraphale's hand to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss to his knuckles. His lips tingle where they touch bare skin. Aziraphale gasps softly. Crowley hopes this is reminiscent enough of their formal introduction to stir Aziraphale's memory. The Alpha's eyes snap back to Crowley's face in surprise.

"I'm no blushing violet, Lord Aziraphale. Your injury shows that you are brave and honorable--you're still a good Alpha."

This makes a low growl start in Aziraphale's throat, but he coughs and it stops. Crowley frowns, then continues, "I'm not a connection you'll want. My family has a reputation that will tarnish your name. Besides that, you need to know that I have been left on my own to forge my own way for a very long time. I am not out in society or even good in society, as you saw last night."

Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, with a warm smile across his face. "If this is your argument against me then you're sadly mistaken--I am not looking for a 'traditional, society-ready' Omega. I'm looking for a friend, a partner, a _mate_."

Here Crowley sputters, “I’m obstinate. And opinionated.”

“Oh good, I do hate to debate myself,” Aziraphale teases in reply. He twists and pulls their joined hands from Crowley's lips and returns the same kiss onto Crowley's knuckles. "I am not hearing anything that has put me off you, my dear. I just hear more reasons to get to know you."

"And what of my family? They're..." Crowley swallows, "despicable. And the bride price! You must know that with their financial woes they will set that number so high that--"

Crowley's mind whirls. He knows that there are moneys owed from his mother and brother's gambling habits, but he cannot imagine the exact number. The fact that Lucifer has brought up a bride price leads him to believe it's a higher number than he'd previously thought. Aziraphale is being kind, but he does not know how high this number could go.

"Enough of that," Aziraphale soothes and presses another kiss to the knuckles on Crowley's other hand. "I will admit that I was surprised at this 'bride price' nonsense, but we will sort that out in time."

"And if they will not be dissuaded? Lord Aziraphale, I've no dowery and they've so many debts--"

"I do not care about a dowery, my dear. I do care that you're worried about this. I do not want you distressed about something which you cannot control. You have my word: I will work at them on this matter," he says steadily.

Crowley frets, argumentatively, "They aren't going to give it up--"

"If they will not be disinclined to drop the idea, then I will pay it."

Crowley's brain screeches to a halt. "What?"

Aziraphale chuckles, "You heard me. I truly do not want you to worry about this--it will be handled in one way or another." He pushes the room divider back so that they can see into the library. "I know this has dampened the excitement of our morning stroll, but would you still care to join our friends?"

Crowley considers his words before deciding to put his concerns aside for the moment--Aziraphale wants to show him Zionview Grove instead of worrying. It seems like a better proposition, so he says, "I'd still like to see your home, yes."

Aziraphale tucks Crowley's hand into his elbow and leads him from behind the room divider. He slows and disengages their connection only to collect Crowley's shawl from his previous seat and lay it over the Omega's shoulders.

"Before we join them," he says, his voice a soft rumble, "I want to ask you-- _formally_ , that is--Lord Crowley, would you be open to me courting you?"

Crowley reaches out again and tucks his hand back into Aziraphale's elbow, "I thought I'd made myself clear, Lord Aziraphale." He steps closer so that his torso presses against Aziraphale's arm. He gives a little squeeze to his--no, not yet, perhaps not ever-- the Alpha's bicep. " _Yes_."

The smile that Crowley gets in return is radiant and warm. Unable to contain himself, Crowley himself grins and lets the bubble of joy overflow. He gives a loud, joyful laugh and then ducks his head to hide his blush. Aziraphale reaches over and cups his chin. It’s the first time they’ve touched skin-to-skin and it’s electric. He raises Crowley's head until their eyes meet. Aziraphale's hazel eyes are steady.

"You've made me very happy," he says warmly.

It absolutely melts Crowley, and some tiny, previously unvoiced whine rises from his throat. He would be embarrassed if not for the way the Alpha reacts. Aziraphale smiles, a hint of the predator in his expression, before turning them in the direction of the door. They step out into the saloon together where the Devices await them. Lady Device sees where their arms join and quickly looks up to Aziraphale's face. He doesn't react and she smiles knowingly.

"All ready to go, AZ? Lord Crowley?" she asks.

"I believe we are. Do you need anything before we set out, my dear?" he asks Crowley.

He should ask for a bonnet or hat. Instead, he grins and rolls his shoulders. Why wake the Dame if he can avoid it? "Nah, let's go."

"Perfect!" Aziraphale exclaims and leads their little group toward the front door.

Johnson, a footman, meets them at the door and opens it with a nod. Crowley smiles at him. "Thank you."

The footman is surprised and Crowley feels a flush of embarrassment. Aziraphale, on the other hand, seems to appreciate it. He gives a little wiggle of pleasure as they step outside. They exit the door and walk the pebbled trail that circles the house. At Lord Aziraphale's suggestion, they begin by making a right-hand turn.

“Zionview Grove is where I grew up," Aziraphale shares with the other three. "My father inherited it and the title when he was very young--thirteen, I think. He felt strongly that all his children should understand the importance of our home.

"We grew up knowing that this house and its tenant lands were our responsibility to care for. I think each of us--well, I suppose I can only speak for myself--I feel a deep connection with this place."

His speech falls away as they enter a tunnel of tall beech trees. The trunks form one side, while the great house makes the other. Between their leaves, Crowley sees a green lawn and a distant pond. Some landscaping exists on this site, but very little. At the edge of the far trees, deer graze.

"The pond is stocked, if you care to fish at any time while you're a guest here," Aziraphale continues.

"Do you fish?" Crowley asks him, curiously.

"Well, it's not a particular interest of mine. Do you enjoy it?" he replies.

"I've never tried," Crowley admits.

"Well, I believe Newt fishes, is that correct, Lord Device?" Aziraphale inquires.

"I do. It's quiet. Nobody bothers you when you're fishing," Lord Device--Newt, apparently, replies. "I'd be happy to take you out if you're interested," he offers. "I'm sure they have all the tackle we'd need here."

"I might take you up on it," Crowley replies, slowly.

"That's a lovely prospect," Aziraphale comments, his voice quieter for only Crowley to hear. "The sunshine becomes you. Your hair is like copper in the light. I imagine I could watch you fish for hours."

Crowley lets his dark glasses slip down his nose so that he can see Aziraphale over the frames. He stares at the Alpha disbelievingly.

"If you choose to go fishing," Aziraphale says with a practiced primness to his voice, "I may just tag along and look at your loveliness to my fill."

"You think I'm lovely?" Crowley chokes out, his voice cracking.

Aziraphale does not answer him in words, but instead, places his hand overtop Crowley's that rests in the crook of his arm. Crowley lets the weight of it ground him. No one has ever commented that he was lovely before. They've asked why he walked like he lacked a spine or why his eyes looked as they did, but never have they found him beautiful. They walk along a little further, each in their own thoughts.

Crowley looks up to the sky. It's turning blue, but there remain some hazy white clouds obscuring the sky. Birds flit by. The walkers turn the corner around the house. Aziraphale continues his narration with a gesture.

"We'll picnic out here at some point this stay," he says of a flat, green grassy area. "I believe there is a plan to set up the lawn for tennis. Do you play, Crowley?" he asks with guileless eyes.

Crowley shrugs and wishes he'd left his hair untied. Now would be a nice time to hide in its curtain. He swallows and answers quietly, "I think it's fair to say that I haven't done many things, Lord Aziraphale. Fishing, tennis, picnics are all new to me."

"Then you'll have great fun with us learning how to do them," Lady Device declares. She bounces in front of them, a sort of hopping gallop. "Let's make a list of things for you to try this visit."

"Let's not overwhelm him with too many activities," Aziraphale protests, protectively, but Lady Device overrides him.

"Shooting, riding, some new country dances, and perhaps some sketching or painting," she lists, counting on her fingers. "We could do a poetry reading one night."

"Anathema," Aziraphale interrupts, with a teasing laugh, "I'd like a few minutes to sit with him and talk too."

She waves this off, "You can chat while we fish or dance." She turns around in a wide circle so that her skirt flares out and her husband laughs and grabs her around the waist.

"You're domineering again, my love," he teases and kisses her cheek. "You promised not to mettle this weekend."

She tucks her head into his shoulder and says something against the fabric. Crowley doesn't strain to hear but instead turns to Aziraphale. The Alpha leans his head toward Crowley's so they can speak privately.

"My cousin can get a little carried away. Please don't mind her. She doesn't mean any harm," he says.

His breath tickles the hair that curls around Crowley's ear. He swallows and tries to get his pulse under control. Whispering about one's relations should not be attractive. He tries to continue the conversation without sounding breathless.

"I can ride, but horses hate me," he admits with a shrug. "I can paint too, and sketch, but that's nothing surprising. Any Omega can do that."

Aziraphale gives a gruff chuckle. "You'd be surprised how few of them can do it well."

This makes Crowley grin, "So you said last night. Are you again an art critic, Lord Aziraphale?"

"My dear, you need only call me 'Aziraphale'," he reminds with a pat to Crowley's hand. "And, while I do not presume to have any instruction on art criticism, I have had 'accomplished' Omegas paraded before me for much of my adulthood. Trust me when I say that few are actually of any proficiency."

Crowley grins. There is that sweep of bastard again. It's attractive. They turn with the outcropping of the house--a wing addition. Once around its facade, they see a large fountain, marble stairs, and a collection of well-manicured gardens.

"The Labyrinth is new," Aziraphale comments, pointing to the far shrubberies. They grow well over any man's head. "I've only been in with a map. Perhaps we could try together sometime."

"Add it to the list," Crowley jokes, "I've never walked in one."

"I got lost in one once," Newt comments, offhandedly.

The breeze brings back an Omega scent. Newt smells like freshly bloomed hyacinths. Anathema smiles adoringly at him when she too smells it. Her own clean Alpha scent of rosemary brightens with her joy.

"You never did," Anathema sighs, a smile still tugging at her lips. "You took a wrong turn and sat down to wait for me."

"I needed a knight in shining armor," Newt teases.

"You needed some damn initiative," Anathema replies, slapping her husband's arm. "You were in there for half an hour, not half a day!”

Crowley considers their playful bickering and the shrubbery maze. He speaks quietly, with words only meant for Aziraphale to hear.

"We might get lost in there, without a chaperone," he says slowly as if testing out an idea.

Aziraphale answers him in much the same voice, "It would be a test of our wits to escape--but we might have a moment to ourselves to chat without fear of someone bursting in on us."

Crowley grins, devilishly at Aziraphale, "I'd ask you to be my knight, but we'd be missed at breakfast."

"Perhaps afterward, then?"

"Perhaps," Crowley replies with another grin.

They continue on the pebble path, taking the corner around the last side of the house. Newt pulls Anathema aside and they stop to converse while looking in the direction of the stables. Aziraphale slows their pace so that they are still within the eyesight of their chaperones. Crowley leans on his arm for a moment, allowing his imagination to run wild. _He and his husband are taking a morning stroll. Aziraphale renewed his mating mark the night before and they're feeling the need to stay close._ It could be a reality. He might have finally found someone who understands his wild nature. Crowley takes a half step toward Aziraphale, letting their bodies brush.

Unfortunately, that is the exact moment that his hip seizes up. Pain shoots from his hip across his lower back. He hisses, then tries to ground his foot to keep his balance, only it slips on the pebbles and he slides. Pain radiates down from his hip through his leg while rippling up his spine.Aziraphale grabs his arm and pulls him safely to his feet. Crowley is held protectively tucked against the Alpha's chest. He gasps in pain, even then.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asks, his eyes wide with concern.

"Yes, well, I warned you about my hips and spine," Crowley admits in a low, grumpy voice.

He grimaces through the pain and tries to stand when he sees Aziraphale’s worried expression. He cannot allow such sorrow and apprehension to live on that kind face. Even though he knows that his hip is locked, he tries to place weight on that leg. Crowley nearly falls again. Aziraphale grabs him under the arms and pulls him upright. Then, gracefully, he slides one arm along Crowley's back and helps support his weight. They hobble this way to a bench, where the Alpha helps him sit.

"Oh my, yes, you've overdone it, haven't you? How thoughtless of me. What with the dancing last night, not to mention the tight confines of a carriage for your travel here. Oh, dear boy, forgive me. I was so excited to show you the grounds that I've failed to look after you," he frets.

He wrings his hands, then plucks at the hem of his waistcoat in anxiety. Crowley wants to comfort him, but when he reaches out his hand, the movement rocks his spine, and he yelps. He coils in on himself, embarrassed and injured. Aziraphale reaches out and gingerly touches his shoulder, as if too firm of touch will further wound him. Anathema and Newt join them, worry etched on their faces.

"Are you taken ill, Lord Crowley?" Newt asks.

"No, forgive me, this is my doing," Aziraphale argues.

Crowley speaks overtop him, "I am fine. I just need a moment to stretch out my hip and I'll be good to continue our walk."

No one protests his claim, but Crowley sees the disbelieving looks they exchange.

"Really, this happens frequently, I'm afraid. I've had ill health since I was a child," he answers. "I was born with a sort of palsy."

"And exercise exacerbates it?" Anathema surmises thoughtfully.

"Something like that," Crowley answers.

With a rub to his thigh, he braces his hands on the bench and forces himself to stand. No matter his determination, his muscles strongly protest and his leg buckles once more. Before he can slip back onto the bench with an embarrassing thump, Aziraphale grabs him around the back, this time lowering him with such tenderness that Crowley closes his eyes.

"I believe that you will need some assistance, Lord Crowley," he says gently. "Will you allow me to help you in for breakfast?"

Crowley is mortified. This is not how one wins a fair husband, he is fairly certain. If anything, this will only convince Aziraphale that Crowley is an unsuitable mate. His cheeks flame, but Crowley nods—he will make the entire party miss breakfast if they must wait for him to be able to walk. Aziraphale leans down a little ways and slots his other arm under Crowley's knees and lifts him up as if they were on their bridal night. A new fantasy dances across the Omega’s mind: his new husband carrying him over the threshold of their home.

Aziraphale's face is very close to his when he asks, "Is this all right?"

"Yes," Crowley stammers, pushing the unbidden image away.

He loops his arm around Aziraphale's neck and hides his burning cheeks by pressing his forehead against the Alpha's shoulder. Anathema and Newt hurry before them and Aziraphale carries him, confidently, to the front door.

"I must say," he says and Crowley can feel the words rumble in the Alpha's chest, "I have imagined holding you in my arms, but to actually do it is more than I could have even dreamed."

Crowley lifts his head and meets Aziraphale's eyes. There is only honestly reflected there, so the Omega takes a chance and admits, "I was imagining walking the grounds with you as my husband earlier.”

Aziraphale groans and stops walking to close his eyes.

Concerned, Crowley asks, ”Aziraphale, are you all right? Do you need to set me down?"

"Oh, nothing like that, my dear. It just pleases me to hear... I could get used to walking with you every morning. Especially if you were my mate. Yet, let's keep from sharing such secrets when I might drop and hurt you," he teases. "You took me by surprise--I was imagining the same."

Crowley pushes his sunglasses down his nose to meet Aziraphale's earnest gaze unimpeded. "You will be a good husband," he says honestly.

He leaves it unspoken that he would be happy to marry Aziraphale. Aziraphale swallows closes his eyes, then begins to walk forward again with deliberate steps. He has heard both Crowley’s spoken and silent words.

His voice has that same deep rumble as before as if he’s barely holding off the desire to give an Alpha’s possessive growl, ”No more of that until we have a chaperone. Having you this close to me... well, I will not disrespect you, my dear. We must think of your good name. I haven't even mailed the announcement of my intention to court you to the papers yet."

Crowley chuckles and it holds a tint of his own desires, but also of his sarcasm. "I appreciate it, even if my name isn't worth much these days."

They approach the front door and footmen hurry about them in alarm. Multiple people ask after Crowley's health, but Aziraphale just continues his steady pace into the dining room.

"Could you pull out a chair for Lord Crowley?" he asks Johnson, who chases after them like a shadow.

He does so with efficient speed and Aziraphale lowers the Omega into the chair. He then pulls out the adjacent chair and seats himself. Anathema and Newt sit across from them.

"I'm afraid breakfast is still not ready to be served," Shadwell apologizes from the sideboard where he arranges chaffing dishes.

The buffet is clearly in process of being set up, but not yet filled with hot food.

"Forgive us, Shadwell. We know how you like to have these things ready before we enter," Aziraphale says with regret. "It seemed more expedient to bring Lord Crowley here directly than move him again so soon."

Crowley covertly rubs at his leg while grinding his teeth. The pain was bearable when he had Aziraphale's body heat and muscles to focus on. Now it pulses with his heartbeat. He forces himself to focus on something beyond the pain. At his right is Aziraphale, so he thinks about how easily he lifted him. Lord Aziraphale may be a man of plump stature, but he was also had military bearing and strength. Crowley licks his lower lip and fidgets with his dark lenses.

Before further conversation or thought can continue, the Dame enters. Anathema and Newt rise to make their morning greetings, but Aziraphale does not use the same agility. He braces his hand on the back of Crowley’s dining chair so that he leans over Crowley's shoulder and he whispers close to his ear.

"You should know that Lady Burningstone's reputation is not your reputation. I do not see her faults as yours," he says, before rising to his full height to bow.

If his mother notes his own lack of curtsey, she does not comment. Instead, she strides over his seat.

“Crowley,” she says, her eyes shrewd, and he gulps, “your brother tells me that you and Lord Aziraphale went for a walk this morning.”

“We did,” he answers, before gesturing over to the Devices, “we had chaperones.”

She dismisses this with a sharp nod and completely turns her attention to Aziraphale.

“Lord Lucifer tells me that you want to do this traditionally—with all the fanfare of newspaper announcements and gifts.” The Dame pats her Omega son on the head and he grimaces. “I see no need for that unless your family requires it. If it were up to me, honestly, I’d simply sign the marriage license and get a baby in him. When my husband produced an Alpha child, I took him for earring branding, but not before then. It’s an easy dissolution otherwise.”

Anathema takes Newt’s hand and pulls him up and out of his chair and out of the room. The Omega’s face is white and shocked, while Anathema looks thunderous. Crowley wonders what his own expression shows.

“Check in with us later?” Anathema asks as she exits.

Crowley, surprisingly, is the one who nods. His mother frowns when the movement nearly dislodges her hand. Newt slides the door closed behind them. Similarly, Shadwell disappears through the servants' entrance to the dining room.

“Forgive me, Lady Burningstone,” Aziraphale begins, his voice sturdy, but bemused, as if he’s misunderstood. “Are you suggesting that I seduce your son and impregnate him before claiming him as my husband?”

She pats Crowley’s head again and this time he leans away from her hand. “Oh, claim him, certainly. A mating mark is good for the health of the pregnancy—“

“That’s utter tosh,” Aziraphale retorts, with clipped letters. “If I claim a mate then I would take him as my husband as well.”

The Dame shrugs. “I am simply saying that it’s an option. Lucifer assures me that you’re open to the match.”

“Your son is right here,” Aziraphale says, irritated. “Have you asked his opinion on this matter?”

The Dame ignores this and carries on as if Aziraphale hadn’t spoken. “I know Lucifer mentioned the bride price. We believe you will have a happy and long life together; we believe £400 a year—“

Crowley coughs, “£400 a year? Mother, that’s… that’s… outrageous!”

She shakes her head in disagreement. “Oh, son, you know how treasured you are in our home. This is a way to ensure your safety—“

The door opens again and this time Lord and Lady Fellthrop enter. Aziraphale looks relieved to see his brother. Gabriel holds his wife’s hand, and she protects her pregnant belly with one hand. Together they approach Aziraphale.

“Good morning everyone,” he addresses kindly.

“Lord Fellthrop,” the Dame says immediately addressing the business ahead of her, “I am of the opinion that traditions can hold people back.”

“Only the traditions that keep you from your money,” Crowley mutters under his breath.

Aziraphale huffs and covers his mouth as if he’s coughing. Uriel raises an eyebrow at them both but makes no comment.

“I am comfortable with Lord Aziraphale and my son signing their marriage license today. What are your thoughts?” Lady Burningstone says in a way that suggests it’s up for discussion.

Crowley knows that his mother is not really encouraging this.

“Just for clarification,” Gabriel says with care, “are you suggesting that my brother wed your son without the reading of the Banns and without any of the so-called ‘traditions’ in our society?”

Aziraphale grunts, “Without reading the Banns for three weeks, our marriage would be nulled. Not to mention that Crowley’s reputation would be tarnished—people would assume that he was in, well, ahem, the family way, if you forgive my indelicacy.”

“Our family has connections. The Banns can be,” the Dame wiggles her fingers as if something is dissipating, “overlooked.”

Crowley sighs and leans his elbows onto the table, easing some of the strain on his back. “I’m sure you owe those families some significant gambling debt.”

Lady Burningstone snaps to face him and her hand lands on his shoulder. Her nails curl into the skin of his muscle and she yanks him back toward her. Crowley grimaces as her nails bite and his muscles protest.

Meanwhile, Gabriel steps toward Aziraphale. Quietly, just for his brother’s ear, he whispers “what do you want to do?”

Crowley closes his eyes and wishes that he were anywhere else. Aziraphale and Gabriel consult in mutters. This should be a moment of joy, instead, it feels like a back alley deal. All his life, Crowley has heard that an Omega’s engagement is a highlight of her or his life. Crowley just feels sick.

“Please, let me ask my intended,” Aziraphale says at his normal volume.

Gabriel nods, pleased with the answer. From the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Aziraphale study the Dame’s hold on his shoulder. “Usually, I would simply ask Lord Crowley to take a turn around the room with me. However, as he’s injured, I’d ask that you all step back.”

The Dame chuckles, “You have no need for secrets now.”

Simultaneously, Uriel addresses Crowley, “Are you hurt, Lord Crowley?”

“He’s had some injuries since childhood,” his mother replies. “Some rest will mend him. Isn’t that right, son?”

Crowley swallows his feelings and words. He lets his eyes fall shut again. He feels sick.

Aziraphale ignores all this, “Again, I’d like a moment with Crowley.”

He steps behind Crowley and uses his hip to push between the Dame and the back of Crowley’s chair.

Lord Fellthrop turns his wife and walks wide toward the fireplace. “Join us, Lady Burningstone?”

Once they’re out of earshot, Aziraphale settles back into his dining chair.

“What would you like to do, my dear?” he asks Crowley.

Crowley’s fingers flex on the table. He squeezes the tablecloth. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you choose.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply and grabs one of Crowley’s hands. He pulls them to his chest so that Crowley turns to face him. “No, I want your opinion.”

Crowley licks his lips and smooths the tablecloth with one hand.

Aziraphale continues, “You promised me you were opinionated and obstinate. I need that in my mate.”

At this, Crowley meets his eye for the first time. He does not blink.

“I would be honored to court you; I will make my announcement of intention if that is what you wish,” Aziraphale says, his volume low. “I will also take you away from those beef witted… bad Alphas… and treasure you for all the days of your life, starting immediately, if you’d like.”

Crowley swallows and his fingers flex again. “You think they’re bad Alphas?” he asks, his voice equally quiet.

Aziraphale cocks his head thoughtfully, “You doubt that, my dear?”

“They’re Alphas, whatever they say _is_ ,” he replies with a shrug. “My opinion does not matter in their way of thinking.”

“Then that makes them poor examples of our secondary gender. We don’t live that way here,” Aziraphale argues. “Crowley, my dear, what do you want from me? There’s no wrong answer, I promise you.”

Crowley takes a deep breath and thinks about their walk that morning, their secret letter this morning, and even their conversation from behind the room divider screen. This is the man who has teased him about getting lost in a labyrinth, who practically undressed him with his eyes, then apologized for it. This is a kind man.

“Alpha,” he says, and Aziraphale shivers with the ownership it implies. “Would you think me too forward, Lord Aziraphale, if I asked you to…” and here his voice dries up in a hiss.

“I will agree with whichever you choose,” Aziraphale repeats as his thumb strokes the back of Crowley’s hand through his glove.

“Take me away?” Crowley whispers, broken. “I’ll never fault you for taking mistresses or lovers. I will be no bother—“

“Bother?” Incredulous, Aziraphale leans closer. When he next speaks, his voice is tender. “No, my dearest darling, you will be my treasured mate. There will be none for me but you.”

Crowley gives a sound half disbelieving huff and half sob. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand and breaths deeply until he is calm.

“I had looked forward to courting you,” Aziraphale admits as he continues to stroke the back of Crowley’s hand.

“I was enjoying it so far myself.” This makes Aziraphale smile brightly. “Might I offer a compromise?” Crowley asks, thoughtfully.

Now that he’s balanced again, his brain is functioning as it usually does.

“I’m all ears,” Aziraphale replies, clasping Crowley’s hand in both of his own.

“What if we agree to my mother’s proposition, but continue with our courting? Send out the announcement—I’ll stay as your sister-in-law’s guest for the three weeks,” he says slowly.

Aziraphale considers this. “I like this, but you’ve no ability to escape our arrangement—“

“I won’t want to, Alpha,” Crowley admits.

If he’d wanted to be meek, he could have been, but instead, he says it with sincerity and strength. Aziraphale’s eyes dilate and he swallows back the predatory growl that tries to appear again.

“Then we agree to wed in three weeks?” Aziraphale asks, a small smile gracing his lips.

Crowley hesitates, “Only if you want to.”

“Oh, my sweet Omega,” Aziraphale smiles and, unbidden, gives a pleased growl, “I very much want to.”

Crowley, equally surprised by his natural response gives a hiccup of happiness.

Gabriel calls to them from across the room. “Brother mine?”

Aziraphale waves the group over and stands, without releasing Crowley’s hand.

“Brother mine, may I introduce you and your mate to my intended, Lord Crowley Jayanthony.”

Gabriel offers his hand to shake his brother’s and Uriel offers her’s to Crowley.

She smiles at them both, “I wish you much happiness.”

“We shall complete the arrangements for tomorrow then?” the Dame clarifies.

“It is hasty,” Uriel begins, but her words dry up when the Dame both look at her annoyed.

“We are going to wed in three weeks after the Banns are read,” Crowley answers, his voice starting strong, then slowly dying away to a hiss when his mother turns her gaze upon him.

As if protecting his future mate in any way he can, Aziraphale steps between Lady Burningstone and Crowley.

“And Lord Crowley shall be our guest in the meantime,” he decides.

“That seems unwise,” the Dame replies. “I am thinking of our family’s name. Our propriety.”

Aziraphale growls a little, angry. “And yet you were willing to sell your son to the first bidder—“

Gabriel raises his hand to stop his younger brother. “My good wife and I assure your Omega son’s safety in our care. He is to be our brother as well. We shall care for him as is expected.”

“Three weeks hence then?” the Dame asks.

Aziraphale looks to Crowley in confirmation. He looks up, nearly shy, and gives a small nod.

“So be it.”

With that, the Alpha Dame offers her hand to shake Gabriel’s. “I am suggesting a slightly higher bride price, of course, for this inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience?” Aziraphale nearly snarls, his scent slightly burning at the edges of his anger.

From behind him, Crowley’s hand shoots out and clutches Aziraphale’s arm. The Dame turns her sharp eyes on them and Crowley tucks himself smaller.

“Well for depriving our family of our beloved Omega Lord Crowley, of course,” she replies, smoothly.

Crowley knows that her eyes have not left him. He can feel them burning into his scalp.

Gabriel clears his throat, “As breakfast is about to be served, perhaps we can adjourn this conversation until all in our party has eaten.”

He walks to the servants’ entrance and taps on the door. Shadwell pops out quickly and then waves the footmen in. Uriel opens the door to the saloon and invites their other guests in. Crowley watches all this, his hand still clutching Aziraphale’s suited arm. His mother continues to monitor him. Her eyes sweep over Aziraphale’s posture and Crowley sees the wheels spinning in her cunning mind. Some plan has just been hatched.

“Perhaps we engaged the wrong family for this long weekend,” the Dame comments, her words calculating. “Perhaps this match is ill-suited.”

Aziraphale’s scent changes then to something dark—it seeps from under his cuffs. Crowley’s hand holds the Alpha’s arm close so he gets a full whiff of the pheromones and his own hackles raise in alarm. On the other side of the room, Alphas are stepping closer to their own mates, looking around for the danger. The warning is in the air.

Distantly, some part of Crowley’s mind catalogs the reality that Aziraphale is already treating him as if they are mates. His own body is reacting similarly. These are not things to focus on as his Alpha mother is beginning to bare her teeth at Aziraphale.

“It just seems that you are already so possessive of my little son. No Omega should be so coveted—unless you’ve already had him! What a scandal that would be! Imagine how heartbroken his dear Mama would be to find her baby boy, the child she bore, was so deflowered. Perhaps we ought to make for Tophet immediately to avoid the gossip,” she illustrates, her hands waving like a conductor. “Of course, I imagine that if some child were begotten from such an ill-advised and ill-suited a union, then there would also be an addendum to the bride price.”

The Dame has made no attempt to lower her voice and the others whisper to one another at some of her archaic and inflammatory notions.

“I assure you, Lady Burningstone,” Aziraphale rumbles, his lips curled back in a snarl as he says it, “Lord Crowley is as virtuous as when he first arrived, but I would not threaten to take him away from me.”

Newt’s query to his wife carries from the buffet table, “Did she really threaten to keep their pups hostage without a ransom?”

Assorted murmurs accompany this observation. Aziraphale decides to rein in the gossip.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his words still issued around a little snarl, “can I interest you in some breakfast?”

“I’d like some eggs if there are some,” he replies, still holding onto Aziraphale’s arm.

“I could use a drink, you?” Aziraphale asks as if nothing in the world is wrong.

“If there’s any more of this ‘ill-suited’ match talk then I’ll need alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol,” he replies.

He’s surprised that his voice sounds so calm—adrenaline and sarcasm surge through his veins. His pulse is hammering with the need to flee and with each inhale of Aziraphale’s scent, it increases.

Furious, the Dame considers them each before taking three steps away from them. Once she deems herself out of attack range, she turns her back and looks in the direction of the buffet. Aziraphale does not seem to think the threat has reduced, however, because he has not moved.

“I think we best head to the library, Lady Burningstone, and settle the specifics of this agreement,” he says.

He could be holding a flaming sword and no one would be any more terrified of him. At this moment, he is an Alpha who has had his intended mate threatened. The only thing more terrifying would be the same prospect, but if Crowley were wearing his mating mark and wedding earring. Somethings are just not challenged.

“Unless you are willing to agree to the financial details of this betrothal, then I fear there is nothing left to settle,” she replies as if nothing were wrong in the world.

Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s arm vibrating with the need to move under his hand. He squeezes his forearm, hoping to help Aziraphale relax. If anything, however, it seems to remind the Alpha what is at stake. He looks back over his shoulder at the Omega in the dining room chair and his eyes warm when he sees Crowley. Then his lips curl back and he returns the verbal volley.

“Crowley is not for sale. He is a man,” he snarls, whipping around to face the Dame. “But look how you’ve reduced him to fear. He knows you’ll take him away from me. You’ve kept him locked away for years—only now that he’s of value to you, he can come out and play. Forgive me, madam, but this is not love, nor protection. This is neglect, bordering on abuse.”

The moment the word is spoken voices rise. Lucifer and the Dame are shouting about slander, while Lord Dowling excuses himself immediately to summon the local constabulary. Omega neglect is no small matter. It’s prevalent, yet hard to prove. Cases that have come to light are smeared across newspapers. Unmated Omegas have lost all rights associated with their names—not for their actions, but for their connection with the family who wronged them. The community only cares about justice for those people in a distant way. They’ve never stepped up to help the Omega after their family is found guilty. Where can an Omega go? They cannot hold jobs or own property. If they’re unmarried then they have no legal place in society. If their spouse is at fault then little ever happens with the case.

Crowley’s fingers flex against Aziraphale’s tailcoat sleeve as it becomes harder and harder to breathe. Panic flares around him and spots appear before his eyes. A high-pitched frequency blares in his ears, but other noise disappears to a dull fuzz. He feels hot all over. He flutters his free hand and then clutches the tablecloth. The movement draws Aziraphale’s attention once again and he turns around, then steps closer to Crowley’s chair.

With one hand, he reaches down and cups the back of Crowley’s neck tightly, like a mother dog lifting her pup by the scruff. Immediately, something settles. Crowley’s breathing settles and his vision slowly returns. Sound drifts back in around him. He can feel the heat pouring off Aziraphale’s skin.

“Breathe with me, my darling boy,” Aziraphale says to him, his voice calm and soft. He leans down close, his face mere inches from Crowley’s. “You are all right. You are safe. Just breathe with me.”

“They’ll… take… me… away,” he pants, staccato. “I…won’t…have…a choice.”

“I am never going to let that happen,” Aziraphale answers, applying more pressure to the nape of his neck. “There are multiple people in this house who heard the verbal agreement of our engagement.”

“No…documentation…” Crowley gasps.

The announcement to the papers that Lord Aziraphale Herald intended to court the Omega Lord Crowley Jayanthony is still lying, no doubt half-written, in the library on Aziraphale’s desk. Besides, who will believe that this is not an elopement? An Omega comes out into society and the announcement is posted the very same weekend? Highly suspect.

“About that,” Anathema says and Crowley judges her voice to be nearby through his panic, “I may have taken some liberties, AZ. I posted your announcement for the society pages this morning on your behalf. It should run tonight and tomorrow in all the papers.”

Laugh lines appear around Aziraphale’s eyes. “Thank you, cousin.”

“It won’t matter,” Crowley gasps, now able to string together more than one word at a time. “They’ll separate… us.”

“Indeed, that is the intention,” Lucifer snarls from somewhere behind Aziraphale’s back. He immediately releases Crowley’s neck and stands in a defensive position again. “I think it’s time I get my darling little brother packed up and headed home. This is clearly not the situation for him.”

“This is extortion,” Anathema replies, sounding just as ready to fight as Aziraphale. “Bride prices. Threats against their children! Hiding Omegas from society. Stealing them away when they’ve clearly already made secondary and tertiary bonds with a mate. That’s detrimental!”

“It’s murder,” Newt says, his voice clinical, but frightened.

His scent is sickly sweet like a flower wreath at a graveside. “If you separate Lord Crowley from Lord Aziraphale now—and do not let them reconnect, he will die and you will be charged with murder.”

Lucifer aggressively lunges at Newt and Anathema jumps forward. Her fist flies through the air and strikes Lucifer in the chin. It’s as if all hell is loosed.

Crowley grew up in a household with six Alphas. While his Mother rarely became engaged with scuffles, his siblings regularly loosed their Alpha natures and grappled. He knows when to get out of the way. He grabs Newt by the wrist and yanks him out of harm’s way. Even as his back and hips scream at him, he cowers under the dining table, pulling Newt with him.

Newt bangs his head on one of the center table legs, but Crowley doesn’t apologize. His panic is back in full control and black spots roll across his vision. He can’t hear well, as if he’s underwater. Somewhere outside the dampened sound, are shouting voices. He crawls, his pain blunted by adrenaline, the length of the table. He bumbles and strikes his shoulder on chair legs, but does not stop. He reaches the end and looks out into the room, the tablecloth draped over his head like a scarf. There is a clear path to the door.

He takes it at a run.

Crowley’s legs are unsteady when he makes it to the saloon and he stumbles. There is no one in the room, but he hears the Alpha rage bellow out and he runs for the grand staircase. He has to brace himself on the handrail as he climbs, nearly hugging it to keep his hips from locking up as they had earlier.

At the top of the stairs, he lets go and drops to the carpet. His room is to the left and far down the hall. It’s no den though, just a quiet space. Panic still tinges his decision making, and he’s frozen for a moment. Just then, something bangs from below and he’s up on his feet and moving again. He takes a right and smells the softest scent of pear in the air. He follows it like a homing beacon, even when his legs fail him and he must lean on the wall for support. The smell brings him to a bedroom door.

It opens easily into a book-filled bedroom. Crowley enters and latches the door behind him. Pears overwhelm him. His hips spasm and he falls, only managing to catch himself on a tallboy chest of drawers. His impact sends a precious pile of books to the floor with a scattering of dust.

“Aziraphale,” he whispers, taking in the Alpha’s room.

He grinds his teeth and forces himself to enter the room. He’s safe here. He knows it in the same way he knows the sun will rise in the morrow. It’s truth.

Before a far fireplace is a wingback chair and he sets his sights on it. However, he trembles now. His legs are already unsteady. Without the pulse of panic and adrenaline to drive him forward, he can barely walk. He falls forward again and catches himself on the trunk at the foot of Aziraphale’s bed. His collision again dislodges books. He would pick them up, but he’s suddenly too tired to keep his eyes open. Crowley grabs the mattress and heaves himself onto the bed. He drops his sunglasses and gloves onto the mattress next to his head, then tugs the duvet from the bed and tucks it around himself like a nest. He presses his nose into the sheets, seeking out the Alpha’s scent.

Pears and safety fill his nose and he is asleep before he knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- You can research Regency bathroom habits if you're so inclined. Just know that I have and everything I mention here is as accurate as I wanted to make it. Be aware, that it was socially acceptable to take a piss in the chamber pot while continuing the conversation you were having with your mates while drinking. Eww.  
> \- Paper was also heavily taxed (also the post was paid by the recipient, not the way we use stamps now). In Jane Austen's writing she mentions that letters were "crossed"--which is to say that saving on post and paper, she and her contemporaries would write as we do now, then turn the page 90 degrees and continue writing. I can't imagine trying to read that.  
> \- Regency breakfast chocolate is not what I was expecting--it's bitter, like coffee.  
> \- Houseparties were notorious for letting young lovers pass secret notes through the staff.   
> \- Bride prices are still done in some traditions in certain cultures. Abhorrent.   
> \- I've tried to place nods to Jane Austen's famous writings as often as I can. The swimming/fishing bit is an eyeroll to the Pride & Prejudice movies   
> \- "Reading the Banns" was a three week period when the clergy of the bride & groom's parishes read out and posted their wedding annoucement. Folks had three weeks to tell the church if those folks shouldn't be wed. Using this type of marriage license was really inexpensive. A "Common Licence" required nearly four times the money and permission from the Arch-Bishop or Bishop. Those "special licenses" you always see in Regency romance novels were very limited and rarely happened.  
> \- £400 a year in those days is about £15,000 spending power today.


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale allowed himself to be drug into the library by his brother. Separating the Alphas seemed to be the best course of action. However, in the hour or so since, he’s regretting his docile acceptance. Lady Burningstone is shouting about the rights of the Alpha parent while she’s interviewed by the magistrate from inside Gabriel’s study.

That is not Aziraphale’s concern. He’s worried about one thing only.

No one can find Crowley.

Aziraphale paces the library length. The footmen have been tasked with finding the missing Omega. But the longer they’re gone and Crowley is still not located, the more worried Aziraphale becomes. He checks behind the room divider one more time, just in case Crowley magically appeared there since he last looked. He rubs his hands together and worries his waistcoat.

“Lord Aziraphale,” Lady Dowling calls from the fireplace, “you’re only upsetting yourself. He’s nearby; he’s hiding. You heard his brother say that he has always fled when Alphas raise their voices.”

“I believe he’d have lots of practice then,” Aziraphale grumbles and rubs his face with his hands.

“I fear so,” Lady Dowling agrees.

Newt is sitting at her side with a book open on his lap, but he hasn’t even looked at the page in a quarter of an hour.

“He protected me,” he says, his voice distant. “He was terrified, but he pulled me to safety.”

“I think he protected his sister the same way,” Aziraphale comments, remembering a rainy winter’s day when Crowley held his cloak over his and sister’s head.

Fretting, Aziraphale’s fingers twist together.

“Lord Aziraphale,” Lady Dowling stands and moves to his side, “might I trouble you for some stationary? I think I have an idea to help with this potential scandal.”

“Of course,” he agrees before moving to his desk. He pulls out the desk chair for her. “May I inquire about your plan?”

Lady Dowling settles into the chair and straightens her skirt, then lifts a quill pen and dips it into an ink well.

“I was thinking that I might write to some friends and mention how long your courtship has been going on with Lord Crowley—in secret, of course, as he was not out in society. How your love is so evident and how your families are very divided on their opinions to the match,” she says, calculatingly. “I’ll spread it as gossip. When the words from today’s dispute come out, it’ll give some busybodies some additional information. You know how those folks in Town enjoy a good tale.”

Newt closes his book softly and stands, “I’ll do the same—make it seem like your romance was an open secret to your close relations, but we’re just now allowed to speak to it.”

“We should include some details from this morning,” Lady Dowling agrees, already addressing her letter. “Make it seem that your engagement is anticipated but that the Jayanthonys are kicking up a fuss.”

“Mention the bride price bit,” Newt agrees with a nod. “Let’s see if public opinion can silence that nonsense.”

“Good thinking,” Lady Dowling says and scoots her chair closer to the desk. “In the meantime, Lord Aziraphale, please forgive my impropriety, but sir, you’ve soaked through your cuffs—as in the ones on your shirt.”

Surprised, Aziraphale looks down. Sure enough, his scent cuffs are drenched and his scent oil is bleeding into his shirt cuffs. Even the interior of his tailcoat sleeve is damp.

“Oh heavens, forgive me.” He gives an uncomfortable and embarrassed bow, “I’ll go and change.”

He exits the library and fights the urge to look for Crowley. Newt and Lady Dowling are likely right, he’s hiding and will return when he feels safe. He climbs the stairs and looks down into the saloon. The local constabulary officer lingers by the door to Gabriel’s study, clearly eavesdropping on Lady Burningstone’s interview with the magistrate. He sees the man flush and look away.

Aziraphale couldn’t care less. Lady Burningstone deserves all the gossip that good society can rustle up. He reaches the top landing and walks toward his room. He tugs his tailcoat off as he opens the door. He kicks a few books, which have fallen from his dresser, and he grunts. Usually, such abuse to his beloved books would be a crisis. In light of Crowley’s absence, however, it seems an inconsequential matter.

He tosses the coat onto his wing armchair and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. He fights with unknotting and unraveling his cravat and wrinkles his nose at the overwhelming stench of rotten pears. His anxiety has drowned his scent. His cravat joins his tailcoat and he sets to work on his shirt buttons. He begins to walk deeper into his room, in search of a clean shirt, when he sees how the duvet of his bed is bunched up. With a confused frown, he pulls another button free of its hole.

Then he sees red hair.

Aziraphale’s heart stops and he walks to the bedside. Crowley is wrapped in his duvet, asleep in his bed. Dazed, Aziraphale lets himself sit on the edge of the mattress. He watches the slow rise and fall of Crowley’s chest. Almost hypnotized, Aziraphale reaches out and traces gentle fingers along Crowley’s hairline, from his forehead, over his temple, to the shell of his ear. Crowley sighs in his sleep. Aziraphale carefully unties his scent cuffs, never taking his eyes from the Omega asleep in his bed.

_Where he should be,_ his brain supplies. Only, it should be _their_ bed.

It’s the kind of thoughts that make this situation so dangerous. The nature of his secondary gender states ownership over this Omega. That will not be. He is not a beast. He stands and rings the bell by his bed. He stands there, hand still on the rope for the bell, eyes locked on Crowley.

_Soon_ , he reminds himself. Soon they’ll be married and Crowley will be safe. Three weeks is barely a moment in the grand scheme of things. They’ll have a lifetime together. His inner animal is calmed for the moment.

His valet Quartermaster opens the door and Aziraphale raises his finger to his lips. He points to Crowley. The valet’s eyes widen in surprise.

“He was here the entire time?” he whispers.

“Seems so; I just entered,” Aziraphale whispers, chagrined. He tosses his drenched scent cuffs onto the chair with his cravat. “I wanted a chaperone.”

“Wise decision,” Quartermaster agrees, unmoved. “Should I call a housemaid to sit with him?”

Aziraphale considers this as he tugs his wet shirt off. “It would be best.”

Quartermaster steps back into the hall, without letting the door shut. Aziraphale selects a clean shirt from the wardrobe and slips his arms into its sleeves. His valet waves at someone and Peggy and Ellen, two of the younger housemaids, join them.

“Lord Crowley has been found,” Aziraphale whispers, buttoning his shirt. “Will one of you alert Mr. Shadwell and the other stay with us? I’d like Lord Crowley to have an additional chaperone.”

Peggy blanches and runs to find the butler. Ellen swallows and enters the room hesitantly. Quartermaster opens the tallboy and finds a clean pair of scent cuffs and helps Aziraphale dress. Ellen averts her eyes as the valet ties these onto Aziraphale’s wrists.

In the bed, Crowley shifts, and Aziraphale watches him over Quartermaster’s shoulder. Crowley stretches his arms over his head and yawns. He’s never been lovelier.

“Did you sleep well, my dear?” Aziraphale asks while Quartermaster settles his shirt cuff.

Crowley’s yawn is cut short and he sits up with a jerk. Aziraphale chuckles and Ellen even smiles.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Aziraphale says apologetically, while Quartermaster ties his cuff onto the other wrist.

Crowley rubs at his face, “‘Snothing.”

“Not a morning person, I take it?”

Ellen hides her giggle in her hand.

“I just like to nap,” Crowley grumbles before kicking free of the duvet.

He gets tangled and the kicking seems to only further twist the fabric around his legs.Aziraphale can’t help himself. He heads toward the bed. Quartermaster steps away, the deferential valet, but remains attentive in his role of chaperone. The Alpha grabs the duvet and pulls it, straightening the fabric and releasing Crowley at the same time.

“Er, thanks,” Crowley grunts, before swinging his legs out of the bed.

His boots hit the sideboard and he glares at them. “Went to sleep with my boots on,” he grumbles, confusedly.

“Yes, we’ve been looking for you. I think you went to bed a little… out of sorts after the brouhaha down below,” Aziraphale suggests.

“‘Brouhaha’?” Crowley asks, incredulous as he finds his sunglasses and gloves.

“Well, yes, we Alphas lost control, it seems. I do apologize that you had to see me like that, my dear. I try so very hard to keep my emotions under wraps. I am not one of those who enjoys when his hormones run away with him,” Aziraphale waits until Crowley has settled his gloves before he offers his hand to the Omega and pulls him to his feet.

Aziraphale admits that he expects Crowley’s hips to buckle, but as Lady Burningstone predicted, he seems to have only needed rest. He rises gracefully, holding his hand.

“That entire situation ‘ran away’ with everyone,” Crowley grumbles, sliding his sunglasses into place on his face.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees, then steps over to Quartermaster, who helps tuck his shirt in.

It’s discomforting for Crowley to see him in such a state of undress, especially with servants around them. Crowley doesn’t seem concerned, instead poking around the room. He touches book spines and lifts his bric-à-brac, turning them over curiously. Aziraphale follows him with his eyes. Finally, Crowley peers into the full length framed mirror and unties his messy tail of hair. He uses his fingers to comb it into some sort of order before refashioning it with his ribbon. Aziraphale longs to untie it once again. Before he can comment on how lovely the Omega’s hair is, Crowley sees the wall behind the mirror.

“What’s this?” he asks stepping sideways to examine the wall.

His fingers trace the frame in the paneling.

“It’s the hidden door to the connecting bedroom,” Aziraphale answers. “When we’re married, _your_ bedroom.”

“We have a secret passage between our rooms?” Crowley asks, delighted. His eyebrows twitch devilishly, “How titillating.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and laughs, “It’s traditional for wedded spouses to have some private spaces.”

Crowley lifts the framed mirror out of the way and pushes on the panel. “It won’t open.”

“The door opens from the Omega’s room, Lord Crowley,” Ellen giggles. “You’ve got the bolt lock!”

Crowley’s eyes glisten with delight. “You’ll know when I’m quarreling with you if it’s locked.”

“I would assume I’d know if we were quarreling before then, my dear,” Aziraphale replies, amused.

As they chat, his valet dances around him, helping him to dress. Quartermaster raises Aziraphale’s collar and wraps the long loop of a clean, starched cravat fabric around it twice. He walks around Aziraphale and he obediently raises his chin for the knot. Once it’s tucked under and his collar is adjusted, Quartermaster slides a clean navy tailcoat over Aziraphale’s shoulders. He dusts off the Alpha’s coat and Crowley gazes at him, hungrily.

Aziraphale swallows, knowing the other two people in the room can see these exchanged looks. It doesn’t stop him from grinning, seductively in return. Crowley immediately flushes, then throws back his head and laughs. Aziraphale joins in instantly.

When their laughter fades, Aziraphale offers his arm to the Omega. “While I’d love to show you your room, I fear that the magistrate was called while you were napping. They will want to speak to us.”

Crowley slowly takes his arm, his face already worried. “Aziraphale, the repercussions of this—“

“Will be grave, yes. How has what’s been done to you anything less than dreadful?” he replies as he leads them into the hall. “Your life has been ruled in a very unjust manner. Your family is responsible for that.”

Crowley bites his lower lip as Aziraphale guides them down the stairs and into the first landing. “Perhaps so,” he finally answers, “but this scandal will land on your head too.”

Aziraphale stops and loosens his grip on Crowley’s hand. He turns so they are facing each other. He takes both of the Omega’s hands in his and lifts them, one after the other, to his mouth. He kisses them reverently.

“Then so be it, my dear.”

Crowley stares. “You really mean that,” he says, shocked.

“Just so,” Aziraphale confirms, turning and realigning them to walk together down the remaining stairs. “You did frighten me earlier, my dear. I couldn’t find you.”

Crowley looks at him sideways, his yellow gold eye flashing behind the sunglasses. “You didn’t think to look in your own room before you did?”

“In retrospect,” Aziraphale admits as they reach the saloon, “it was a bit of an oversight on my part.”

Shadwell nods, directing the constable toward them.

“Lord Aziraphale and Lord Crowley,” the constable greets them with a bow.

Aziraphale pauses and gently releases Crowley’s hand before he returns the bow. Crowley offers a curtsy, but it’s stiff. Perhaps he’s not as well as Aziraphale had thought.

The constable approaches them and waves toward Gabriel’s study. “The magistrate would appreciate it if you could answer some questions.”

Crowley glances toward the study but makes no effort to walk in that direction. Aziraphale takes a step forward but then pauses.

“My dear?” he asks and holds out his hand.

Crowley takes it but still does not move.

“Lord and Lady Fellthrop are already present if you’re concerned about a chaperone?” the constable begins.

When Crowley is still unmoved, Aziraphale steps into his line of sight. “Crowley, your family is not in the study. You will not have to interact with them again unless you wish.”

Crowley blinks at him, slowly from behind his lenses. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course, my darling,” Aziraphale answers, taking his hand and placing it safely in the crook of his elbow.

Without another pause, he leads them into his brother’s study. Trustingly, Crowley follows his lead. Aziraphale bites down on the pleased rumble that wants to escape his lips.

Uriel is settled at her husband’s desk sipping tea. Gabriel and the Magistrate, an old friend of their family, are seated in wing chairs by the fireplace. They rise when the local constable closes the door after Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Brother mine,” Gabriel greets, “you remember Sir Theodoric Pratchett?”

Aziraphale bows and shakes the man’s hand. “Sir Pratchett, it’s been a long while.”

“Indeed,” the man replies, his white mustache twitching with his smile, “the last time I saw you, you were headed for the war. Now you’re headed for the altar.”

Aziraphale smiles, before holding his hand out to take Crowley’s once again. “May I introduce Lord Crowley Jayanthony, my intended.”

Crowley curtsy and Sir Pratchett bows. “A pleasure, Lord Crowley. You have excellent taste; Lord Aziraphale is a good man.”

Aziraphale smiles, embarrassed, but Crowley seems to glow at the compliment.

“Yes, that’s true.”

Gabriel offers Crowley his chair and he walks back to his desk to stand behind Uriel. Aziraphale mirrors his brother’s pose and stands at Crowley’s elbow.

“I am sorry to bring up this distressing situation, but Lord Crowley, it appears that this state of affairs has altered your life the most,” Sir Pratchett says, gently.

Aziraphale looks down and sees Crowley grip the arms of his chair. “My family has never hurt me,” he says, his voice soft.

Under the Alpha magistrate’s gaze, Crowley sinks into a caricature of a docile Omega, a role Aziraphale thinks he plays often at Tophet. His shoulders curl in and his eyes will not leave the rug at his feet. Aziraphale studies the line of his tense shoulder and arm. Even his voice has changed, it’s quiet and pitched higher.

“Lord Crowley, Lady Burningstone, and your brother Lord Lucifer said that they did not admit you into society due to your health,” Sir Pratchett leads, then waits for Crowley to answer.

“Lady Burningstone has always worried after my sister and me,” Crowley replies, his words devoid of any answer.

There is an uneasy silence, where Aziraphale can hear the crackle of the fire and the clink of Uriel’s teacup. Crowley barely breathes.

“Lord Crowley,” Sir Pratchett says, his voice even softer yet, “are you afraid of your family?”

Suddenly, the scent of pine smoke billows through the room with Crowley’s distress. Aziraphale bows forward, instantly, and cups his hand across Crowley’s nape.

“It’s all right, my dear. You’re safe,” he whispers, but in the silence, his voice carries.

“I believe that’s enough of an answer,” Sir Pratchett admits, his voice soft and sad. It takes on a more serious, managerial tone when he addresses the Alpha, “Lord Aziraphale, perhaps you can answer me why you felt that the Jayanthony's are guilty of Omega neglect.”

With his thumb stroking Crowley’s neck, he considers his words, “Lord Crowley has confided in me that he’s worried this information will cause a scandal and will result in us being separated. Please keep that in mind as I share this.”

Sir Pratchett hums. Aziraphale carries on.

“Lady Burningstone suggested that we were an ill match when I would not immediately agree to the ‘bride price’. Lord Lucifer reinforced this belief,” he says.

Then, with a tiny voice, Crowley adds, “She told Lord Aziraphale to have me tonight and breed me to see if I had an Alpha child. She suggested that he could cast me off otherwise. Then she threatened to take away my pups if the bride price wasn’t paid.”

It’s as if a curtain has been pulled over the room. Aziraphale cannot help himself. He steps closer to the Omega and Crowley leans backward, pressing his neck against Aziraphale’s palm. He can feel his own oil dampening his scent cuffs when he smells Crowley’s fear and distress. There are also new angry and worried scents mingling in the room. Aziraphale sniffs the air and everyone’s emotions show in their scent: Gabriel’s singed leather, Uriel’s medicinal eucalyptus, and Sir Pratchett decaying thyme. Such lovely smells, usually, but they’re so worried and angry now that they’ve turned. Of these smells, Aziraphale is most concerned about Crowley.

“Forgive me, Lord Crowley,” Sir Pratchett says with a choke as he tries to control his emotions, “when were these things said?”

“This morning,” Crowley answers, raising one hand from the chair and rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “She implied it when we were growing up as well, but, as pups never entered into society, what did those threats mean?”

Aziraphale’s thumb rubs the tender skin below Crowley’s ear in what he hopes is a calming gesture. Sir Pratchett strokes his mustache. He tries to control the rage that dances across his eyes—it’s the same reaction any Alpha would have if an Omega were threatened in such a manner.

“They will take me away from my Alpha,” Crowley croaks, his fingers still hiding his eyes, even more so than his sunglasses. Aziraphale does not miss the crack in his voice when he says “my Alpha”, as if he is the most precious thing Crowley has ever had.

“Nonsense, my darling,” Aziraphale argues, bending down and leaning closer. “No one shall separate us. You have my word.”

“Your intended is correct, Lord Crowley, they have no power over you anymore,” Sir Pratchett affirms. “Lord Aziraphale, you said something about a bride price?”

“My mother wants my intended to pay £400 per year that we are married,” Crowley answers for him.

Aziraphale hears the others in the room inhale in surprise. He supposes that he should have told his brother the amount, but it’s too late now.

“At that amount, why not simply keep Lord Crowley’s pin money?” Sir Pratchett asks, perplexed.

“There will be no dowery,” Crowley answers. “My family have ruined our fortune at the tables.”

“I see,” Sir Pratchett says thoughtfully. “Please forgive the tactless nature of my question then.”

Crowley shrugs then turns his face and hides it by pressing his forehead against Aziraphale’s leg like a child. It lights something inside Aziraphale like a firework and a protective chuff issues from his mouth. Crowley looks up in surprise and Aziraphale knows his expression mirrors Crowley. He hasn’t heard such a sound since his mother chuffed at him when he was a pup.

Apparently reading their looks to one another, Sir Pratchett laughs, “It’s my advice that you apply to the Bishop for a Common license to marry without the posting of the Banns. I know it’s a fair amount of money, yet you’re clearly already tightly bonded—“

“Nothing improper has happened between Lord Crowley and me,” Aziraphale says feeling the need to protect Crowley’s honor.

Gabriel moves quickly to his brother’s side, “I can attest to this. Nothing inappropriate has happened under our roof.”

“I was in no way suggesting such a thing!” Sir Pratchett says with a smile. “My wife and I were the same. We met once at a country dance but knew immediately that we were well matched. Our bond began with so-called ‘tertiary’ bonds—trust, respect, and friendship. I am blessed that we made such connections early. I would be a lesser man if not for her.”

He smiles at them then, his eyes sparkling. “I wish many happy blessings on your union. I will be happy to write a letter in your interest to the Bishop.”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale trustingly then. “I have worried about Lord Crowley’s reputation with such a hasty union,” Aziraphale admits, returning Crowley’s solemn and certain gaze.

“I must say, Lord Aziraphale, you honor your intended with such concerns. In this case, in my opinion, let society talk. No one can dispute your bond if you are married with a wedding certificate, mating mark, and wedding earring,” Sir Pratchett declares.

“Lady Dowling wrote to some friends,” Aziraphale says slowly, still only looking at Crowley, “as if telling idle gossip of how we’ve had an illicit love connection for many years.”

“Illicit?” Crowley asks with a raised eyebrow.

“You were not out in society, yet I wooed you—so she writes,“ he says with a smile.

“That will make the tongues wag for certain,” Gabriel agrees.

“Is that wise?” Uriel asks. “Certainly someone in your acquaintance will see through the lie.”

“We have met before,” Crowley admits, softly. “He gave me his umbrella.”

“Brother mine,” Gabriel chastises and Aziraphale can tell from his tone that it’s not completely in jest, “you spoke to an Omega not yet presented in society?”

“Worse,” Crowley teases, slowly returning to his fiery, true nature, “he and I made eyes at one another.”

Sir Pratchett nods, knowingly, a secretive smile gracing his face, “That’s how it was with my wife and me. It’s a good feeling to be so known.”

Aziraphale thinks about that and agrees. “It is.”

Crowley grins up at him, “Yes. It is.”

Sir Pratchett then turns to Uriel, “Lady Fellthrop, could I ask you to take Lord Crowley elsewhere? I fear I need to ask some unkind questions to all the Alphas together.”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale and when he meets his Omega’s eye, his heart clenches. He can barely believe this man is real, let alone preparing to be his husband.

“Lady Fellthrop,” Aziraphale begins, sliding his hand from Crowley’s neck and down his shoulder until their hands meet, “Lord Crowley was curious to see his new chambers. I wonder if I might ask you to show them to him?”

Uriel smiles and stands, her balance a little off in light of her swollen belly. “I will see to it, but perhaps we’d also begin to talk of opening your own home.”

Aziraphale helps Crowley stand. “My mother’s dowery includes a house in Town—in Soho if you’d believe it. It is mine. I had always thought to open a bookshop.”

“I’m not much of a bookseller,” Crowley comments, giving his hand a squeeze before he offers his arm to Lady Fellthrop. “I’ve also never been to Town.”

“Oh, it’s very diverting,” Uriel informs as they exit.

Sir Pratchett sighs as the door shuts behind them.

“This is a nasty business,” he says.

“I worry that it’s about to get messier,” Gabriel comments, lifting the teapot. “Brother mine, have you eaten today?”

Aziraphale thinks back, “We never did get to breakfast.”

Gabriel fixes him a cup of tea and hands it to him. Aziraphale would stare as Gabriel is often after him to eat less or exercise more since his military career ended. This is very out of character. It shows just how this whole affair has upended the Heralds.

“Perhaps you can start in on that new trend of luncheon?” Sir Pratchett suggests before leaning forward. “Gentlemen, this will not be pleasant. From what I’ve heard from Lady and Lord Device, plus this interview, Lady Burningstone is willing to set aside any good, acceptable morals for her own gain.”

Aziraphale sinks into the chair that Crowley just vacated. He sips his tea thoughtfully. “You’re also about to tell us that we have no way to pursue this in the court of law.”

Sir Pratchett inclines his head in affirmation, “You were always too bright for the Army.”

Gabriel paces across to his desk, then strides back, nervously. “Then she could still break off the engagement.”

“Lord Device was very concerned that such a separation would injure Lord Crowley, nearly to the point of death,” Sir Pratchett says. “At the time, I felt he was being dramatic for the sake of your argument, but having seen all this, I feel he’s right.”

Aziraphale tries to fight down the protective, possessive rage that boils up with this remark. “I will not have us separated.”

Gabriel stops, mid-stride, and addresses his brother, “I will support you. Lord Crowley is under my protection until you are wed, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale thanks his brother and sips his tea. “I’ll need to go to Oxford to see the Bishop tomorrow at the latest.”

“I’d advise it sooner rather than later,” Sir Pratchett says. “I can offer you my lodgings there should you need to stay overnight.”

There is a tap on the door and Anathema, Lady Burningstone, Lord Lucifer, and Lord Dowling enter.

“The constable said you needed to see us all together,” Lord Lucifer says, airily. It’s so rehearsed that Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

Sir Pratchett rises from his seat and addresses them all. “Thank you all for joining Lord Fellthrop, Lord Aziraphale, and I. First, I think it was best that we agree that this morning’s dust-up does not happen again,” he says with the wisdom of a parent scolding his children.

“I’m far more concerned about the state of my son’s safety,” Lady Burningstone says and Aziraphale shares a disbelieving look with Anathema.

“To be honest,” Sir Pratchett drawls, “from what I’ve heard, I am very concerned about Lord Crowley’s safety as well. You and your family are a danger to any Omega in your care.”

Lady Burningstone does not take the comment well.“You insidious little cretin,” she shrieks.

“If you were to try and take this to the court, I believe you’ll find that ‘privilege of peerage’ will absolve us of any misdoings,” Lord Lucifer thunders.

“We believe that to be true,” Sir Pratchett agrees. “We also believe that Lord Aziraphale and Lord Crowley’s attachment is strong enough to harm them if they are parted. Therefore, Lord Crowley shall stay as a guest of his future in-laws when you depart.”

“We’ve already agreed to this,” Lady Burningstone fumes.

“Yes, but you have an unacceptable caveat,” Sir Pratchett continues, “the idea of a ‘bride price’ is abhorrent. It’s illegal. Should you hound the Heralds about this fee, I will press charges of Omega neglect. I certainly have enough evidence. We are overlooking this in consideration of Lord Crowley’s honor.”

“Against my wishes,” Aziraphale grouses quietly.

His brother steps on his foot.

“We will take our leave of Zionview Grove immediately,” Lucifer snaps. “My brother will be with us. You insult us this way and expect that the engagement stands?”

Aziraphale is out of the chair like a flash. He throws his teacup, heedless of where it lands. His lips are drawn back in a snarl and his hand reaches for his scabbard. When his fingers brush empty air instead of his sword, he growls loudly, like a roar.

“You will not come anywhere near him,” he threatens without any specifics.

“You have no grounds to keep him. The engagement is off,” Lady Burningstone asserts.

Aziraphale feels the hair on his neck standing on end as hackles. He stands in a fight stance, ready to attack the threat to his mate. If his fingers could grow talons, he would. Lady Burningstone takes in his posture and a tiny smile twitches at the corner of her mouth.

“So you have besmirched his good name? You’ve taken him?” she says, deliberately antagonizing him.

“Lord Crowley’s name is as respectable as it ever was,” Aziraphale snarls in reply.

“I believe we agreed to no further fisticuffs!” Sir Pratchett yells overtop them.

Aziraphale steps back yet remains ready to fight.

Gabriel clears his throat and says, “My wife and I will offer you £2,000 as your so-called ‘bride price’.” Aziraphale and Lady Burningstone both interrupt, but for different reasons. “This is a one time offer. Take it or don’t, but leave Lord Crowley in our care.”

Aziraphale stares at his brother. Gabriel will not look in his direction, but Anathema does. She nods, assertively. Clearly, she believes that the Jayanthony’s will not stop without something to line their coffers.

“That is a very low figure,” Lord Lucifer sneers.

“It’s all you will get.”

Lady Burningstone dusts her gloves off and then sweeps at her skirts in the same manner. “I will take this fee, but only if Crowley returns home with me until the wedding date.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, simply and definitely.

“I’m sorry, but that is not the offer,” Gabriel says, smoothly. “My brother and his intended are going to begin to process of setting up house at Zionview Cottage. Between that and the wedding plans, I fear they’ll be needed here.”

“Then, I fear,” she mocks his words and tone, “that my price is higher than you named.”

“Yes, I do believe that I have enough documentation here, seen with my own eyes, along with several witnesses for us to file for extortion charge, but more damaging a ‘slave Omega’ charge. It’s clear that you’re holding power over his condition and status, which is the definition of that law,” Sir Pratchett says. “Wouldn’t you agree, constable?”

The local constable looks aghast at this behavior and he nods decisively.

Lady Burningstone fumes. “Fine. I’ll need my carriage. The money will be—“

“Forfeit,” Aziraphale says, definitively. “You missed your chance for my brother’s goodwill.”

The tension in the room is palatable again. Lord Lucifer throws up his hands and marches out of the room. His mother considers them each, looking from face-to-face, then walks out. She is sure to bang her shoulder against the constable’s and slam the door behind her.

“Dramatic,” Anathema comments.

“I think we ought to go referee,” Gabriel says, already heading out of his study.

Sir Pratchett, Anathema, and Aziraphale follow, hurriedly. Shadwell meets them at the door, clearly running to get them.

“My lord, Lady Burningstone and Lord Lucifer are in a rage—“

Before he can finish, Aziraphale runs up the stairs. He barely remembers his feet touching each step.

“Crowley!” he yells, then listens for his reply.

“Angel!” Crowley calls from the right, his voice happy.

With an exhale of relief, Aziraphale jogs down the hall past his own bedroom. Crowley is his new suite along with the other Omegas. Eve, the housemaid, is hanging his clothes in the wardrobe. Lady Blanc and Lady Dowling are each seated on the footstool at the bottom of Crowley’s bed, watching and commenting. Newt hands Crowley items and he arranges them on his dressing table. Uriel hovers at the doorway, directing footmen to bring Crowley’s belongings.

“I have things at home,” Crowley tells Aziraphale, “but judging by the yelling that my family did as they came upstairs, I’m going to assume that we’ll have to wait a little while before we visit and collect those.”

Uriel waves his comment away.

“I see no reason why we won’t travel to get those items this week. You’ll need wedding clothes and Tophet is an easy stopping point to or from London,” she says breezily.

Lady Blanc shakes her head, “Make me a list, Crowley. I’ll send them back immediately. There’s no reason you should do without.”

Crowley smiles gratefully. He looks around the room and points at an empty place on the wall. “My sister’s painting will go there.”

Aziraphale’s pulse slows. The Omegas are all together, safe. Crowley is safe. As he sorts his feelings, he leans on the doorway and listens.

“Which one?” Lady Blanc asks. “Her landscapes are very tiny, they could go somewhere.”

She looks around, squinting as if imagining the options.

Crowley continues to look at the blank space between his two windows, “The only one she ever painted for me is in my bedroom.”

He does not clarify, but Lady Blanc looks saddened. “Yes, I’ve always liked that one. I’ll ensure it arrives safely.”

“Lady Blanc, perhaps we could do it together, then travel to Beryl for a fortnight,” Lady Dowling says with a giggle. “Our husbands could shoot and we could have some peace!”

“Oh, Harriet! You really meant your invitation?” Lady Blanc asks, her eyes bright.

“I did indeed!”

Lady Blanc stands, “I’ll go speak to my husband now!”

Lady Dowling follows her, “I better tell Thaddeus then. Perhaps your Adam could join us? Warlock will be pleased to have a guest his own age.”

“I’m sure it can be arranged,” Lady Blanc says. “Adam is precious… when he’s asleep. Otherwise, I fear he’s a hellion.”

“Blanc, he’s nearly in puberty. What do you expect?” Crowley replies with a laugh as the two women leave.

“You have a nephew?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley nods. “He’s the pride and joy of Tophet. Blond, Alpha, healthy.”

“And a hellion?”

“Undoubtedly. Spawn of Satan himself.”

At this Newt snorts and Uriel hides her smile behind her hand.

“My dear,” Aziraphale begins, “I fear I’ll need to ride to Oxford this afternoon to petition the Bishop for our marriage license.”

Crowley frowns and strokes his hand down his throat thoughtfully. Aziraphale is mesmerized by the long line of unblemished flesh and those slender fingers.

“Won’t we both need to sign it?"

Newt answers for him, “Yes, in the chapel. Anathema and I did the same. Once Lord Aziraphale gets his permission, you can wed in seven days.”

“So we’re back to talking about marrying sooner rather than later?” Crowley asks, sitting on the stool of his dressing table.

Aziraphale grimaces. “I’m afraid so.”

Crowley sighs and rearranges the items on his dressing-table, “So if we’d just gone along with the Dame’s plan this morning nothing would have gone wrong.”

“That’s not remotely true,” Uriel argues. “The things that were said—threatened—were unacceptable and unfit for any lady of standing to utter.”

Newt huffs, “Unfit for any person at all, standing aside.”

Uriel continues, “Lady Burningstone’s plan centered on her. Whereas this is about safety.”

Aziraphale inclines his head. “Your safety, specifically.”

Crowley has a brush in hand. His knuckles clench around the handle.

“She’s trying to break us apart.”

“She is. She will not succeed,” Aziraphale says with a low rumble.

Crowley nods and slowly releases his hold on the brush. “So you’ll leave soon?”

“I was hoping to have a rest first. I must admit that staying up all night last night plus today’s antics have left me drained.”

  
Crowley stands and approaches him. He holds out his gloved hand to take Aziraphale’s. “Sleep well. But I’d like to see you off.”

He raises Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth and kisses it. Aziraphale feels a zip of electricity arc between the Omega’s lips and his own skin.

“I will, my dear.”

He squeezes Crowley’s hand and bows before taking his leave. The spark of Crowley’s lips on his knuckles continues to pulse through him like fire and he feels his arousal burn. He opens the door to his bedroom, latches it, and flips the lock sharply. He sheds his layers, dropping them all at the foot of his bed without care. He needs relief.

Aziraphale drops, naked into his mattress. As soon as he does, he smells cedar—Crowley has slept here. It makes his erection ache. He grips it in his fist with a loose tug. He sighs, relieved as he turns his face and presses his nose into the duvet. With the second flick of his wrist, he hears something, but dismisses it as people in the hallway and continues his administrations with a pleased, breathy sigh.

Then he hears Crowley gasp a soft “oh” and his eyes snap to the foot of his bed. The Omega stands there, their connecting door ajar behind him. Aziraphale flushes from the root of his hair to his toes and scrambles to sit up and cover himself. Crowley, on the other hand, has different plans. He crawls up the foot of the bed and settles at Aziraphale’s feet.

“The others agreed that a rest sounded good and have gone to lay down themselves.” He wets his lips, then he purrs, “Don’t stop on my account.”

Crowley’s eyes are uncovered and molten yellow gold. They take in his naked form hungrily. “Come on, angel, show me how you like it.”

It’s unwise, but he can’t find it in himself to care or stop. Some part of him knows that Crowley is meant to be his friend, partner, husband, and mate. That part of him encourages the Alpha to show Crowley how he likes to be touched.

Aziraphale stretches out under this expression, pushing away the duvet again. His bare hip just millimeters away from Crowley’s. It takes a moment to relax, he finds. Then he sees Crowley drinking in the sight of him, his lips parted and his eyes dilated. That’s all it takes. He lays back on the tartan duvet, his eyes half-lidded as he rubs his palm down his chest. Crowley’s eyes follow his hand as he descends.

Crowley and Aziraphale’s breath hitch in tandem when he touches himself for the first time in a lazy stroke. He’s painfully hard under Crowley’s gaze. His fingers flex and he hums in pleasure. Crowley leans closer and must decide he’s still too far away. He scoots closer and braces his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s head so that he’s arched over him.

Aziraphale uses his free hand to find the laces on Crowley’s scent cuff and tug them loose. The cloth falls onto the bed and cedar envelops him. He turns his head and sniffs the scent gland that peaks out from between Crowley’s glove and shirt cuff. He leans closer and the tip of his nose brushes the skin there. Both of them gasp.

Crowley’s breathing increases to a pant. It’s enough to make Aziraphale stretch up and brush their lips together. Crowley surges forward and deepens their kiss. Aziraphale can only focus on the soft pressure of lips, and, in time, the sweep of tongues. He falls back onto the pillows with a gasp, then tightens his grip on himself and strokes faster. He’s so close already. He twists his wrist and Crowley licks his lips in response. Aziraphale reaches up and grips Crowley’s wrist, his shirt still between their skin. The Omega moans and it makes Aziraphale arch up into his hand.

Then Crowley pulls his other hand back and brings it to his mouth. He bites one fingertip of his glove and removes it. It falls onto Aziraphale’s chest then onto the bed, ignored. Then, Crowley’s bare palm skates over Aziraphale’s torso, never closing the distance to touch but teasing. Aziraphale can feel his orgasm threatening to overwhelm him. It’s never felt like this, he thinks as he looks up into his mate’s face.

Cedar blazes around him, making him dizzy. Then, using only his pointer finger, Crowley touches one fingertip to the base of Aziraphale’s cock. He goes off like a bottle rocket, nearly convulsing with the power of his climax.Crowley is frozen, his expression open and amazed. His eyes are wide, almost lacking any white. He looks like… he’s in love.

It staggers Aziraphale. Crowley only smiles, adoringly.

“My Alpha,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss him, “you’re beautiful.”

Then, using the same single-digit, he reaches out hesitantly and draws it through the spend on Aziraphale’s belly. His touch sparks. Aziraphale groans. Crowley grins, but it’s too sweet to be a leer. He raises his finger to his mouth and sucks the come from it. It’s so erotic that Aziraphale feels like he’s trying to orgasm again. His testicles draw up and he gasps at the sensation.

Crowley makes a thoughtful face and then selects another finger’s worth from Aziraphale’s torso. “It tastes like pears,” he comments.

Aziraphale stretches out on the duvet with a chuckle, nearly exhausted, “Scent glands. Makes sense.” Then, teasingly, but seductively he wonders, “Will yours taste like woodsmoke or pine?”

Crowley moans and his head hangs down, his eyes closed. Aziraphale feels Crowley’s arm muscle under his hand tense, then Crowley is pulling away. The Alpha tries to follow him but makes himself stop. Crowley is in control here, as it should be. He’s not claimed yet. But the Omega isn’t going away. Instead, he plucks at his waistcoat, yanking it off then removing his shirt the same way.

“Crowley, my dear, are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, worriedly, sitting up.

“I need to, please,” Crowley whines.

“Shh,” Aziraphale soothes as Crowley’s other glove joins the pile of his clothing, “it’s all right. I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley relaxes as if this confirmation has comforted him. Then he kicks off his boots efficiently.

“Kiss me?”

Aziraphale cups his face and brushes their mouths together. They trade kisses that increase in intensity. Crowley’s hands reach out, hesitantly to rest on Aziraphale’s bare chest. They break from their kiss and Crowley’s eyes are heavy-lidded. He smiles, lazily, nearly drunk. Aziraphale considers the situation carefully and sets boundaries.

“I will not take you until our wedding night,” Aziraphale announces, and Crowley sits back. “I want you to know that.”

Crowley considers this, then unfastens his trousers and kicks them and his pants off. “Fine, but I want you to touch me,” he begs. “Please.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Aziraphale promises again, only this time, his voice drops to a rumble as he says, “Omega.”

Crowley keens again, this time folding in half. Aziraphale reaches out and cups Crowley’s neck. It immediately soothes his Omega, who shivers at the touch. Aziraphale’s eyes rake over his body. Crowley is pale and freckled, but lean and bony. His cock juts out from his body at a curve. Like other Omegas, it’s smaller than his own but still lovely. Using the hand at Crowley’s neck, he pulls him closer and Crowley crawls toward him on his knees.

Once he’s closer, the heady scent of Omega slick hits him. He moans wantonly. Crowley bites his lip and grabs the base of his cock to stop his reaction to such a sound.

“Will you touch me?” Crowley asks when he’s in less danger of coming.

Aziraphale feels the chuff issue again from his chest, only this time he lets it. Crowley whimpers at the sound and his eyes fall closed.

“Give me your hands,” he orders, and Crowley immediately responds.

Aziraphale is pleased as he places Crowley’s palms on his bare shoulders. They both sigh in contentment at their touch. Aziraphale stretches his legs out and guides Crowley so his knees bracket his hips. He carefully places a hand in the small of Crowley’s back.

“Oh my,” he whispers, reverently.

His fingers brush over the skin there and Crowley’s eyelashes flutter but do not open. He leans forward in a request to be kissed. Aziraphale does so, nibbling on his lower lip before letting their tongues tangle. As he does, his other hand unties the scent cuff still laced at Crowley’s wrist. Their scent mingles in the air. Pears, but almost Port poached in his lust, and cedar with heavy, warm resin dance together between them.

Aziraphale’s fingers travel from his wrist up the tender skin of the inside of Crowley’s forearm, elbow, and over his biceps and shoulder. He breaks their kiss to tease Crowley’s collarbones. Crowley’s mouth is reddened with kisses and his cheeks ruddy with desire. Aziraphale dips his thumb into the hollow above his clavicle. The Omega swallows and Aziraphale feels his throat move under his hand.

“My darling, you are so precious,” he whispers before he leans forward so that his lips ghost over the skin on Crowley’s throat.

The Omega keens, high and needy. Aziraphale moves up until his lips touch Crowley’s jaw. It makes Crowley leans into him, but Aziraphale holds him in place between his hands.

“Right here, my love,” he whispers, and lines Crowley’s cock up with his chest where it brushes through his chest hair and the last of his own spend. “Take what you need.”

Crowley humps forward immediately and in his haste, Aziraphale’s hand slides from the small of his back to the swell of his ass. Crowley is gasping and thrusting against Aziraphale desperately. Aziraphale tilts his head up and sees the line of his Omega, his face contorted in exquisite agony with his lips parted. He brings his other hand down to curl around Crowley’s sharp hipbone. Now that he’s touched his Omega’s hot skin, he cannot get enough of it.

“Crowley, my darling,” he whispers, adoringly.

Crowley bucks at this nickname and cries softly. He redoubles his efforts and Aziraphale must admit that his chest is chaffing. His fingers sweep down into the cleft of Crowley’s ass and his slick drips onto the Alpha’s fingers. Aziraphale growls, intoxicated by these feelings. He drags his fingers through the gathered moisture there and brings it to his chest.

“Hold on, my dearest treasure,” he purrs and Crowley stops with a groan of frustration.

His hips buck and his cock presses on Aziraphale’s sternum. Aziraphale lightly slaps the curve of Crowley’s hip.

“Patience,” he tuts and smears the slick on his chest. Once done, he grips Crowley’s hipbone again and guides him forward. He grinds into his chest, obediently. “There, love, isn’t that better?”

Crowley just whines and throws back his head. His hair ribbon is coming loose from his thrusts. Aziraphale reaches up and tugs it down the long auburn strands. The Omega’s hair curtains around his face and Aziraphale gives in to the desire to sweep his fingers through the wave of it.

“Alpha,” Crowley whimpers, “I need you.”

Slick drips onto Aziraphale’s tights and he tuts, affectionately. “You are certainly ready for me, aren’t you, darling?”

Crowley ducks his head to press and rub his cheek against Aziraphale’s. He gives another whimper, this one clearly articulating his submission to his Alpha. He nuzzles at Aziraphale’s cheek again as the Alpha’s fingers slide down his cleft again. He finds Crowley’s entrance with his middle finger and presses in easily. Crowley kisses him then, hiding his howl of pleasure. He pushes back on Aziraphale’s finger, thus arching away from any drag on his erection.

“More, Alpha, please, more,” Crowley begs sweetly between kisses.

“Of course,” Aziraphale replies, his voice dark and heavy and he thrusts his finger inside his Omega carefully.

Crowley is so loose and wet. Curiously, Aziraphale adds another finger, and Crowley keens before sitting up again to rub off on Aziraphale’s chest again.

“You could take another for me, couldn’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, already lining up another finger.

Crowley nods vigorously, “Yes, yes, yes. _Angel_ , yes.”

The moment his fingertip breaches the Omega, however, his hips stutter and he’s coming across Aziraphale’s chest and neck. He keeps thrusting forward and then pressing back on his fingers, fucking himself desperately through his aftershocks.

“Perfection, my darling. What a treasure you are,” he whispers, stroking his hand down from Crowley’s hair to his back.

Tears spill out of Crowley’s eyes as he works himself deeper on Aziraphale’s fingers. When he sits forward, Aziraphale eases himself free of Crowley’s body to his Omega’s frustration. He whines and nuzzles at Aziraphale’s cheek again.

“Shh, darling, it’s all right. Remember, I told you that I wouldn’t take you until our wedding night,” he whispers directly into Crowley’s ear.

Crowley trembles and Aziraphale helps him lie down beside him. He grabs a handkerchief from the bedside and wipes Crowley’s softening cock and his chest clean. Then he grabs the duvet and tucks it around Crowley.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley mumbles, once he's settled again, hiding his face in the bedding, “I got a little lost there.”

Aziraphale strokes his hand over Crowley’s hair. “It was lovely to see. I can’t wait to take you completely apart.”

A yellow eye peaks out at him. “I made a fool of myself and you think that’s lovely?”

“You make a fool of yourself? Preposterous,” Aziraphale huffs. “You’re perfect for me.”

Crowley rolls his face back into the mattress and a flush runs down his neck. Aziraphale hums amusedly and fluffs one of his pillows. He turns on his side to better see Crowley.

“Do you regret this?” Crowley asks, muffled from the bed.

“Absolutely not.”

Silence descends then as they both consider just how dangerous this was. Lady Burningstone and Lord Lucifer are still in the house and they do not yet have a Common License obtained. Then he leans over and kisses the bare skin of Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh drat,” he grumbles, his mouth still lingering over Crowley’s skin. “I cleaned up before I could find out what you taste like.”

Crowley begins to laugh and he hides his giggles in the bedding. Aziraphale chuckles pleased that his joke went over so well. He kisses his shoulder again.

“I need to go,” he admits, softly as he draws a pattern on the place he’d just kissed.

Crowley sits up then, leaning on one elbow to study the Alpha. “I rather ruined your kip, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale strokes his hand down Crowley’s back. “Actually, I feel very refreshed.” He considers the room, “Will you stay here while I gather a few things? I’d like the vision of you in our bed to take with me.”

Crowley blushes again. “You’d like this to be our bed?”

The question actually makes Aziraphale stop. “Of course I would,” he says as if speaking to a simpleton.

Crowley looks away immediately, smoothing the duvet under his hands. It occurs to him that some of the damage Lady Burningstone did to her son will take years to uncover. He’ll regularly misstep and cause his mate pain. He scoots closer and wraps his arm around Crowley.

“My dear, forgive me. I want nothing more than for us to be joined in every way—I’m not just taking you away from Tophet for your good, but my own. I need you, I hope that’s as apparent to you as it is to me,” he says as he pulls Crowley to his chest.

Crowley nuzzles Aziraphale’s neck and wraps his arms around him in return.

“I didn’t use to be this way. I wasn’t so insecure when Ashtoreth was alive,” he admits.

“They ground you down.”

Crowley makes a thoughtful noise, “Perhaps. They’re not monsters, angel. They’re… demons, maybe. They could be good and they are sometimes.”

“They hurt you. I’m not sure I can forgive that,” Aziraphale admits.

“Ashtoreth could hold us together when they got after us. She was stronger than I am,” his voice breaks. “I miss her. She was all I had.”

Aziraphale tightens his hold around his Omega. “I wish I’d known her.”

“You said that last night too, angel."

"Because it's true."

They hold each other until Aziraphale admits that he must get up. He slides out of Crowley’s arms and the bed. He putters around, collecting their clothes into two piles. He feels Crowley’s eyes on him.

“You know,” Crowley says, amused, “this was the least traditional courting gift I’ve ever heard of.”

Aziraphale’s mouth curls devilishly. “It wasn’t my intention, I assure you, but I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Crowley swings his long legs over the edge of the bed and stretches his arms over his head. Aziraphale can’t help but come closer to watch the pull of his muscles.

“That is,” he says, unable to keep his hands to himself, “if it was accepted by the courted Omega.”

He curls his arm around Crowley’s waist and draws his fingertips down Crowley’s ribs, spreading his hand out across his stomach. It’s possessive but tentative. Crowley smiles brightly and leans against him.

“Oh yes,” Crowley drawls, “it’s accepted.”

Aziraphale kisses his temple and Crowley sighs with his whole body. He goes limp against him, except his hand which finds Aziraphale’s bare thigh and strokes it.

“None of that,” Aziraphale reprimands with a squeeze. “I need to get going.”

Even so, he’s reluctant to let go. He kisses Crowley’s temple again, then another kiss to his cheek. Crowley turns his head and they trade kisses with languid curls of their tongues.

“I thought you were getting dressed, angel,” Crowley teases with another kiss.

“Mmm, I am,” Aziraphale agrees with another kiss of his own.

“So I see.”

Aziraphale slides his body away while continuing to kiss Crowley. He lingers for as long as he can before time is really getting away from him. He grabs his pants and breeches and dresses quickly. Crowley finds his own clothes and dresses silently beside him. He leaves his waistcoat hanging open and his feet bare.

Crowley selects Aziraphale’s tailcoat from the pile on the bed and slides it onto his shoulders. He steps in front of the mirror and studies his reflection. Aziraphale stops his actions and watches Crowley pull the jacket around his lapels.

“It’s too large, but you’re welcome to borrow it,” he says, trying to keep the growl contained.

Seeing Crowley in his clothes is more attractive than he can admit. Crowley, however, takes it off quickly, embarrassed.

“I’m an Omega. Tailcoats are not allowed,” he says quickly.

Aziraphale takes the distance between them in two strides and pulls Crowley back into his arms. Crowley bows his head under Aziraphale’s chin, submissively, and Aziraphale grunts in pleasure.

“That, I’m afraid, is antiquated thinking. If you want a tailcoat, then you shall have one,” he says into ginger hair.

Crowley sighs when Aziraphale steps away.

“It’s time for our charade to begin, my darling,” he says. “You’ll need to lock the door.”

Crowley grins, as he makes the bed and collects his scent cuffs, gloves, socks, and boots in his hand, “Sure thing, angel, but if you’re thinking of ringing the bell, you should air the room out first. Anyone with a nose will walk in here and know what happened.”

Aziraphale lightly smacks his shoulder before heading over to open the window.

“I’m going to ring for some water and do a wash. Will you wait for me to finish?” Crowley asks from the door to his room.

“Of course,” Aziraphale agrees.

Crowley gives him a delighted smile, then steps back to close the door. Aziraphale hears the lock engage and he forces himself back to work. First, he ensures that all garments are cleaned up; it wouldn’t do for some of Crowley’s clothing to be found in his room. Second, he settles at his small desk and selects some paper. He starts a list of purchases to make in Oxford. Once this is done, he stands and takes the second page, and begins a carefully worded love letter to his mate. Signed and sealed with his signet pinkie ring, he walks to the secret panel. He presses his ear to it and hears two voices. Eve is helping Crowley wash and dress.

Satisfied that the room is aired, Aziraphale rings the bell then latches the window. He returns to his seat and awaits his valet. Quartermaster is prompt and he comes bearing Aziraphale’s riding cloak, his small travel bag, and a pitcher of hot water. He’s expedient, packing Aziraphale’s clothes, while Aziraphale strips to the waist and washes his face, chest, and hands. To keep his and Crowley’s farce up, it’s necessary to remove any evidence of their first liaison. Thankfully, his valet is too busy to see just what Aziraphale is scrubbing at on his chest.

Quartermaster helps him dress in a starched collar, white linen shirt, tan waistcoat, and dark tan tailcoat. The valet shoulders his packed bag and hands Aziraphale his coat and hat.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile. “Could I ask you to deliver a letter for me or should I call for Wensleydale? He always enjoys those tasks.”

“I’d be happy to give it to the lad to deliver, my lord. Would you like me to tell Lord Crowley that you’re heading out?”

“If you would?”

He doesn’t wait to see Crowley come out, but instead heads down to the saloon. His sister is there, to his surprise. He drops his coat and hat into a nearby chair.

“Michael, how are you?” he asks before walking over to greet her with a kiss on her cheek.

“A bit put out, to be honest. There was a brawl in the dining room and no one thought to invite me?”

Aziraphale huffs, “Nonsense. It was a lot of posturing and yelling, to be honest.”

“I got a punch in,” Anathema clarifies as she approaches from the library door.

“So you did,” Aziraphale amends.

“You’re off to Oxford?” Anathema clarifies.

“Immediately, I’m afraid. Did the Jayanthony’s choose to stay?”

“They did,” Michael says. “Gabriel asked us up for dinner. I thought I’d come by and see if I couldn’t convince you to put off this errand until they’ve gone.”

Aziraphale worries his hands together in his customary fidget. “Did Gabriel send you to convince me, then?”

She shakes her head, “No, he thinks it’s necessary. Uriel agrees.”

“But you don’t?” Anathema inquires.

Michael studies Aziraphale for a long moment. “Do you remember Lord Ligur? I courted him a few years back.”

Aziraphale nods, he remembers Michael’s heartbreak well. She’d drunk herself sick night after night. He wasn’t sure that she’d heal from the grief. “He’s being courted by Hastur Jayanthony of Tophet.”

The words surprise him. He reaches out to comfort his sister, but she only smiles. “I’m all right, brother mine. I am very happily mated.”

He nods. She knows herself well. She would not lie to him about this.

“Ligur is with child it seems,” she continues and Anathema raises an eyebrow. “He is to lose his inheritance and, with that, Hastur has been encouraged to throw Ligur over.”

“Has he?” Aziraphale asks, his fist clenched.

“No, he’s forgone his family’s word and they’ve run off to Gretna Green,” Michael says. “I am sure that Lady Burningstone will learn this very soon, as I have just found out myself. Having heard what she did this morning so publicly, I do not know what she’ll do to your intended mate in private. I think you leaving now is dangerous.”

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder toward the bedrooms. “Crowley will only be safe if we are married.”

Anathema pulls off her glasses and chews on the arm. “Newt and I could take him to our house. I’d have to have you make my apologies to Lord and Lady Fellthrop… and have them pack for us after the fact. We’d have to leave immediately.”

Michael purses her lips, “That seems incredibly dangerous. I think staying here is best. More than likely Lady Burningstone will leave in shame when Hastur’s news get out—“

“What’s that about my brother?” Crowley asks as he descends the stairs.

He’s in a long-sleeved, dark purple tea dress with black gloves and dark glasses. Eve has set his hair up into tight curls, woven with a black ribbon. A few long curls fall over his shoulder. Aziraphale stands there, gaping, as his mate steps into the saloon.

Anathema seems to determine that Aziraphale is beyond speech so she takes up the story, “Your brother Hastur has run off to elope with Lord Ligur.”

Crowley blanches and Aziraphale hurries to his side. “Did you know that Ligur is with child, my dear?”

“No, I didn't. Those fucking idiots,” Crowley says under his breath before turning, pulling off his sunglasses, and hiding his face in Aziraphale’s neck. “Does the Dame know?”

“If she doesn’t yet,” Aziraphale says as he strokes calmingly across Crowley’s back, his fingers bouncing over the buttons that pin his bodice shut, “then she will very soon. My sister came to encourage me to put off going to Oxford.”

Crowley sighs hotly into Aziraphale’s cravat. “I need to write to my other siblings. Dagon is closest to Hastur. She’ll be either in the carriage with him or ready to beat him senseless when he returns from Scotland.”

“Each of you has a partner in crime, then?”

“Nah, just me and Ashtoreth, really. Dagon got along with Beelzebub too when they were younger. When they left in the war, Dagon was sort of only stuck with Hastur. Usher hates Beelzebub, so he’s always playing the others against them. I try to keep them up to date, but what’s the use, ya know?”

Aziraphale continues to rub Crowley’s back but uses his other hand to twist one of his curls around his finger.

“Good Lord,” Michael grumbles, “I take it back. Yes, go get that damn license. Get married tomorrow, if you can.”

“I know,” Anathema says with a similar mocking tone, “they’re disgusting.”

“Ignore them,” Aziraphale replies and kisses Crowley’s forehead. “They miss the honeymoon period of their own marriages.”

“I’m still _in_ my honeymoon period,” Michael protests. “I haven’t been married for ten months yet, brother mine.”

Crowley pulls away from him and fixes his sunglasses. “We’re not going to get a honeymoon if you don’t go to Oxford." He bites his lip thoughtfully, then rolls his shoulders. "If the Dame or Lucifer hasn’t come raging down here yet, then they don’t know. We can keep this from them for a while.”

“How do you propose to do that? Stop their mail?” Michael asks.

“Why not?” Crowley shrugs. “We’ll ask the staff to hide all their post. They didn’t bring their own maid or valet, you know. No one below stairs is loyal to them. If the footmen know what’s at stake, and if they don’t know what my family is capable of after breakfast, then they’re idiots, they’ll help.”

“You have a lot of faith in people you don’t know,” Anathema says, sliding her glasses back on.

Crowley reaches out and takes Aziraphale’s hand. “I might. Aziraphale is the cleverest person I know. If he says that going to Oxford to talk to the Bishop will keep us safe, then he’s probably right.”

“How long have they been bonded again?” Michael complains. “I thought you two met last night?”

Crowley smiles, secretly. “Or six thousand years ago, who can tell?”

He then takes Aziraphale’s riding coat from the chair and holds it out for Aziraphale to shoulder. His valet descends the stairs as he does.

“Quartermaster, I need a favor.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the valet replies, watching Crowley hand his mate his hat.

“Intercept all of Lord Lucifer and Lady Burningstone’s mail. If they hear news of Lord Hastur then my intended is in grave danger.”

Quartermaster looks at Crowley quickly, then nods sharply. “We do not want a repeat of today, my lord.”

“Just so.”

Aziraphale then turns to Anathema and hugs her. “Look after things here?”

“Of course, AZ,” she replies. “I’ll give Newt your good wishes too.”

“Thank you,” he says before hugging his sister. “And thank you for delivering this news. Thank you for keeping us safe.”

She smacks him on the shoulder. “Get out of here. The sooner you can see the Bishop, the sooner you’re back so he stops making puppy eyes.”

Aziraphale turns, already preparing himself for Crowley’s despondent look. The reality is still overwhelming. He holds out his arm and Crowley slips his hand into the crook. He leads their small group out the front door. The groom, Glozier, stands holding a bay-colored stallion. Quartermaster ties Aziraphale’s bag onto the back of his saddle.

With all these preparations going on around them, Crowley seems smaller. Aziraphale stops them about a meter before the horse and pats Crowley’s hand. He steps in front of him and lifts Crowley's gloved hand to his mouth. Just hours before he’d pressed kisses to the Omega’s mouth and skin, but this would have to do for now.

“I’ll write you when I arrive,” he promises.

“Just be safe, won’t you? And come back with good news.”

“I promise you that, Lord Crowley,” he says with another kiss to his glove.

Then, before this goodbye can drag out too much longer, he mounts his horse and takes the reins from Brian.

“Give my love to my brother,” he orders Michael, then looks back to Crowley, “and my intended, should he forget.”

With that, he spurs his horse on and rides away from Zionview Grove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- I've run out of secondary characters and am now forced to use Regency common names for servants at Zionview Grove.  
> \- The law was so stupid back then. If you were of the upper class, you could get away without paying debts ever--murder was sort of the only thing that you might actually have to go to court about. The Magistrate was a local guy who knew everybody and wasn't really good for much. The Local Constable was the same thing, but at the village level.  
> \- Yeah, I used Sir Terry Pratchett as a character. Neil Gaiman will get his chance soon :)  
> \- Here's a sex scene. Enjoy that. If they'd been caught, it really would have killed Crowley's chances of being married off. It was expected that men were experienced in the bedroom, but women had better be virgins!  
> \- Gretna Green is a Scottish town just over the border from England where the Banns did not have to be read. Eloping couples would run away, get hitched, and come home to deal with the repercussions.


	7. Chapter 7

Dinner parties are tedious without good company, Crowley finds. He’s seated between the Dame and Lord Sandalphon. The first part of the meal is exhausting as he tries to simper and smile at his mother’s boasting and prodding.

“You could have kept Lord Aziraphale here, you know,” she says, holding her hand over her son’s wineglass when the drinks are served. “You could have bedded him this very afternoon. You didn’t even have to be mounted. Just, you know, keep his interest. Instead, he’s ridden for Town. No doubt to escape an undesired match.”

The irony of the Dame’s words is not lost on her son. Crowley doesn’t let his amusement show.

“He’s gone to Oxford, Mother, for our marriage license.”

“Hmm,” she says taking a bite of her roast, “so he says. He’s seen that you’re too much trouble and departed. You’ll never see him again. If you’d taken him to bed, perhaps you could have turned his head.”

Her words spin in his head and it must show on his face. Lady Fellthrop has them turn much earlier than the previous evening. Lord Sandalphon should be an improvement, but Crowley finds him a dullard.

He’s been prattling on about slugs for an entire course. “I said to Brother Francis, the gardener we keep, I don’t care what the Lord says about Sister Slug, but I will not have them in my roses. Salt them. Burn them. I do not care how, but you will get rid of them! Smite them!”

Crowley nods, faking interest, and sips his spring water. Wine would improve this meal. Then again, so would a shot to the head. The Dame keeps him from any of the dessert wines also, so he’s bored and clearheaded when the Omegas take their leave. Even as they exit the dining room, Sandalphon is still criticizing the evil slug.

“You look like you had a glorious time at dinner,” the Dowager interrupts, taking Crowley’s elbow as they cross the saloon.

Crowley blinks at her stupidly.

“I sat with your brother and Lord Dowling, so I assure you, I know that feeling well,” she explains.

It surprises a laugh out of him.

“I confess, I expected the majority of the conversation to center on your upcoming wedding. I did not hear a single question about the flowers or the date,” she says.

Crowley joins her on the sofa as Shadwell prepares the tea. “We hadn’t really had a chance to discuss it. Right now, the goal was to keep me from returning to Tophet and getting the proper license.”

The Dowager nods and accepts her teacup and saucer. “Then we’ll sort it out ourselves. We can head to Tadfield tomorrow and order you some wedding clothes.”

Lady Blanc settles across from them, her own tea in hand, “Crowley you can become the clothes horse of the family.” She directs her next comment to the Dowager, “He’s never gotten new clothes since I’ve been in the family—until this trip, of course.”

Crowley feels the burn of embarrassment. This is his future mother-in-law. She doesn’t need to know his sad backstory. He stands quickly.

“I left my embroidery in the library this morning. I’ll be right back.”

He hurries out without a backward glance. The footman Wensleydale is in the saloon and hurries to open the library door for him.

“Are you all right, Lord Crowley?” he asks.

“Yes, just after my sewing bag!” he says with a hasty nod. He grabs the bag in both hands and takes several deep breaths.

Wensleydale stands in the doorway. “I can call Eve for you if you need me to?”

Crowley plasters on a fake smile. “No, I’m all right. I’m just… this is overwhelming.”

The boy is barely into his teens, but he nods knowingly. “My mum and da are both Omegas. Sometimes they have to step away from Alphas too. Like when the hay crop has to come in. Sometimes they hire workers from the village. Some of those Alphas can really make them nervous.”

Crowley pulls his sunglasses down and rubs his face, “But do they ever have to run away from a room full of Omegas?”

“Sure,” Wensleydale says, surprising Crowley. “My Granny is about this tall,” he says measuring about a meter from the floor with his hand, “and Omega to her core. She can still drive them both to drink.”

Crowley chuckles. “A busybody?”

“She’s _always_ in everyone’s business. When I entered service I was just a hall boy. My Granny wrote the old Lord Fellthrop a letter. She thought I ought to be butler right away, just because I was her boy, you know? I was lucky I wasn’t sacked.”

“Was he a fair man?”

Wensleydale shrugs, “Don’t know really. He left for the war shortly after I came. I will say that the Dowager Lady Fellthrop reminds me a lot of Granny.”

Something uncoils in Crowley’s gut. “Thank you, Wensleydale. I needed that.”

The footman smiles happily. “I have a letter for you too.”

Crowley’s brow arches. “Some that we are keeping from my mother or brother?”

Wensleydale shrugs, “We have those in the kitchen. This is a special delivery from Lord Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s face brightens, but just then Sandalphon calls, “Lord Crowley, are you well?” He is clearly coming to check.

“Quick! Hide it in my sewing bag.”

Crowley walks toward the door, calling, “Sorry, Lord Sandalphon, I needed some air.”

Before he can reach the saloon, Wensleydale slips the folded paper inside the bag and then stands against the door, the invisible servant once again.

“You poor dear,” Sandalphon coos, dramatically, “should we take a turn around the room?”

“Actually, I was hoping for some tea.”

“An excellent idea. I’ve heard that tea can be very restorative. It’s also used in the garden as a natural slug repellant,” and so he carries on.

They rejoin the other Omegas and Crowley settles back by the fireplace again, this time holding a teacup. He sips it and lets the nonsense roll over him. Slugs, wedding clothes, whatever—none of it matters. There is a love letter for him to read that evening in with his embroidery.

“I think that the Alphas should be joining us soon,” Lady Dowling gushes.

Lady Fellthrop looks tired and tries to smile, but it’s more a grimace. Crowley sets down his teacup and attends her. “Are you well, Lady Fellthrop?”

“I fear I’m more tired than I thought,” she admits. “I think I’ll retire early. Mama, would you give my goodbyes?”

“Of course,” the Dowager replies.

Lady Fellthrop stands, unsteady. “I’ll walk you up,” Crowley decides, grabbing his embroidery bag and taking Lady Fellthrop by the arm.

“Thank you, Lord Crowley.”

Shadwell accompanies them as the chambersticks are not ready to go up yet. He uses a candle from the piano to escort them.

“I’ll send your lady’s maid immediately,” Shadwell says.

“Lord Crowley, will you keep me company until she arrives?” Lady Fellthrop asks.

“Of course,” he agrees.

Shadwell lights several of the candles in the bedroom before giving a stern bow and retiring. Once the door is shut, Lady Fellthrop kicks off her slippers and slouches in her chair. The feather in her hair droops against her dark cheek.

“No one told me that pregnancy would be this exhausting. I am tired all the time,” she moans.

Crowley can’t help but laugh. “So next time you’re expecting, I should remind you not to host a house party with high maintenance guests?”

She considers this, “Perhaps just remind me to not host the parties at all.”

Crowley reaches into his sewing bag and pulls out his needle box and the fabric sampler he’s begun. He holds the love letter in the bag so his secret remains. He plucks off his gloves and selects a needle and color of thread.

“Maybe it just seems so stressful because today has been an absolute disaster,” Crowley offers, threading his needle.

“I wouldn’t say it was completely. You and my brother-in-law are settled. That’s a positive in my book,” she replies.

Crowley can’t help the curl of a smile. “I would as well.”

He begins his stitches, carefully adding a vine to the border he’s finishing. “I hate embroidery,” he admits.

Lady Fellthrop nods. “Me too. Tedious little craft. And I always stick myself.”

“Nothing says elegant art like blood in the fabric,” Crowley agrees.

“But how else would they know we were accomplished, if not by counting the number of stitches we’d sewn?”

Crowley stops sewing and looks up at her, “What?”

Her face contorts, and for a moment, Crowley wonders if this is one of those fashionable society courting steps that he missed. Instead, she bursts out laughing. He gives a relieved sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she teases, “I forget that you’ve not been out and had to deal with all those stupid rituals. My mother convinced me that I would need to be very precise with my stitches because old money Omegas, like those downstairs, would count to see if I was accomplished.”

Crowley leans forward, “So they’re all like that?”

“Or worse. Blanc and I went to balls together when we were first presented. She was shy but so judgmental.”

Crowley grimaces, “She didn’t deserve what she got with my brother.”

Lady Fellthrop considers him, “Blanc made her own choice. She had other suitors.”

Before the conversation can continue, Lady Fellthrop’s lady’s maid enters with a smile. Crowley stands, curtsies to his hostess, and bids her goodnight.

He’s already in the family wing, he thinks. He’ll need to pass his own room before going down. He might as well stop and read his letter. His hand is on his doorknob without a second thought. Crowley drops his sewing bag on his dressing table and digs out Aziraphale’s letter. The room is dark, but the fire is still lit. He kneels in front of it, removes his sunglasses, and stirs up the embers to provide more light. Then, with careful hands, he breaks the wax seal and unfolds the letter. Immediately, he’s surrounded by the scent of pears.

“You are going to kill me, angel,” he grumbles, holding the scented paper to his nose.

He inhales deeply, then pulls it away to read.

_My darling, Crowley,_

_I can feel your skin under my hands. I can feel your lips on my mouth. These are the sensations I will leave with. They will keep me warm tonight in my lodging. Your body, my love, is as beautiful as your mind. I will take many years of pleasing you to know it as I long to._

_Take heart, my dear, that this challenging time is coming to a close. I know these coming days will be a battle, but you are my own black-dressed knight. You will be victorious and we shall celebrate at my return._

_Crowley, I swear to you that we shall not be separated. The next time I leave Zionview Grove it will be with my husband at my side._

_Keep the faith, my love,_

_Aziraphale_

Crowley nearly swoons, he’s so overcome at the words. First, he’s hot and bothered. Fanning himself with the letter only pushes Aziraphale’s scent oil at him. It does not stop his problem. He places the paper carefully on his skirt and stares into the fire to center himself. Then, because he’s a masochist, he rereads the letter, then stands, refolds it, and looks around for someplace to hide it.

He’s never had servants that did as many household chores as Zionview Grove does. The Youngs were too overwhelmed with tasks to see to every small household need. Crowley cared for his own room and made his own bed and fire. He doesn’t know if Eve will see his letter if he hides it under his pillow or in his dresser.

Finally, in a moment of brilliance, he lifts his mattress and slides the letter between the tucking and feather mattress. He’ll need to retrieve it after they’re wed. Perhaps he could find a treasure or jewelry box? Omegas kept their love letters in those, right?

Crowley straightens his skirt, replaces his dark lenses, and returns to the drawing-room. The Alphas have joined them and the Dame gives him a disappointed look.

“Crowley, where have you been?” Lucifer reprimands.

“He saw to Lady Fellthrop,” Blanc defends him.

Lord Fellthrop looks to his future brother-in-law. “Is my wife taken ill?”

Crowley offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, “Today’s excitement has tired her. She was retiring early.”

“Perhaps you ought to as well,” Lucifer suggests.

Michael rolls her eyes. “He can’t,” she lies, “he promised to accompany me.”

With that, she exits the drawing-room and leads Crowley to the pianoforte. The party follows them and arrange chairs to hear them play and sing. As he settles on the bench, Crowley leans in and whispers, “What were you planning to sing, Lady Michael?”

“Do you know ‘Robin Adair’?” she asks, before sorting through the pile of scores on the pianoforte.

“I know many Irish songs,” he replies and plays the first few bars of the same reel she mentioned from memory.

She raises an eyebrow at him in surprise. “I thought your brother Lord Usher was the musical talent in your family?”

“I think he tells many people he is. Dagon is the best, I’d say,” he replies and poises to play.

She sets the score before them and he’s surprised. It’s the original copy, not the hand-copied music that he’s learned from. No wonder his mother choose the Heralds for his potential match. They were clearly richer than he’d known. He chuckles privately. Trust the Dame to manipulate for money and him to botch it up by falling in love.

As his fingers begin to play and accompany Lady Michael he considers this. He is in love. He’s very aware of this embarrassing fact. People do not fall in love on the first night of acquaintance. Yet, Aziraphale’s letter suggested he was in the same position.

He closes his eyes and lets his fingers play from memory. It might not be exact, but no matter. He feels the broad strokes of sorrow: to be in love and separated is no happy place. He’s lucky that this is temporary. Elsewise, he’s not sure he would survive it.

He puts a flourish to the end of the piece and Lady Michael takes her applause with a happy curtsy. She pats Crowley on the shoulder, encouraging him to also take his appreciation. He nods, awkwardly, and steps away from the instrument. Blanc slides in behind him and begins to play and sing some bawdy song in a very terrible, fake Scottish accent.

The Alphas applaud halfheartedly and Lucifer, the Dame, and Lord Dowling excuse themselves for cards. Michael watches them go.

“We could walk down to the village tomorrow?” she suggests to the group.

“Or take that picnic?” Anathema offers.

“It’s going to be a lovely day for tennis!” the Dowager encourages.

Ideas bat around the group until Crowley is nearly dizzy.

“And your thoughts on tomorrow, Lord Crowley?”

“Anything we agree on would be fine,” he says, with a grimace. “No riding, if it’s up to me.”

The group decides to take the carriage down to the village in the morning before breakfast and do some shopping. Crowley doesn’t have the heart to comment that he has no money to his own name. He’ll tag along anyway, he decides. Decision made, the group begins to break up. The Dowager, Lady Michael, and Lord Sandalphon take their leave. Newt and Anathema head for bed, which Crowley decides must mean he too can retire.

Shadwell rings for Eve and she accompanies him upstairs with his chamberstick.

“How was today, my lord?” she asks as she unbuttons and unpins his gown.

“It had ups and downs,” he admits, truthfully, stepping out of his slippers.

Eve snorts then tries to hide it. She tugs his dress and shift over his head. He unlaces his gloves and scent cuffs and hands them to her. She trades him for his nightshirt, which slides on easily. He sits at the dressing table and unlaces his stockings.

“Do you have a dressing gown, my lord?” she asks, looking around for it.

“Perhaps I can order one, someday,” he replies, uncomfortably.

Eve seems to know that she’s misstepped, so she drapes one of his shawls across his shoulders. “Can’t have you catching cold.”

He hands her the stockings and she adds them to the pile of garments she has on the chair at the foot of his bed. She begins the arduous task of unpinning his hair. She untwists the ribbon and slowly his curls slide free. Eve brushes and loosely plaits his hair, then slips his nightcap over his head.

“What time would you like me to wake you, my lord?”

Crowley frowns and pulls off his glasses. “I can get myself ready.”

She purses her lips as if trying to convey something. “Forgive me, my lord, but you’re the intended mate of Lord Aziraphale. You’re now in his spouse suite.”

“I have some traditions to uphold, I see.”

She nods. “I believe the group was planning to be in the carriage headed for Tadfield by eight.”

“Then, shall we say half-past seven?” he grimaces as the words leave his mouth.

“I’m sure you can sleep in the next morning,” she says as she banks the fire.

“Promises, promises,” he teases and stands. “Good night, Eve.”

“See you in the morning, Lord Crowley.”

She snuffs the _toilet_ chambersticks and she’s gone. Crowley looks around his empty room, cataloging the wardrobe, dresser, table and chairs, dressing table and stool, bed, chair, and dressing glass. He’s suddenly uncomfortable. He lifts the chamberstick from his bedside and unlocks the door that separates his space from Aziraphale’s. With his meager light, he enters Aziraphale’s room.

He walks all around it, taking in the books and trinkets again. It’s homey and lived in. Crowley sets the chamberstick on the bedside table and crawls into the bed. Pear and cedar mix in the linens and comfort him. The room is cool, so he draws the bed curtains around him and snuggles down in the duvet that smells like he and his mate.

When he was growing up, Nanny used to warn him and Ashtoreth about entering their older siblings’ “dens”, especially once they’d entered puberty. Nanny also sometimes called their own bedroom their “nest”. Ashtoreth had always taken offense.

“We’re not bloody birds,” she had griped. “Besides, Omegas are only said to nest when they’re mated.”

Crowley gagged. “Ugh, yep, not mated with _you_.”

Now, however, snuggling down in a feather mattress with pears and cedar in his nose, he sort of understands it. This is Aziraphale’s den, but now that his Alpha has an Omega, there is a nest in it. He drifts off with that welcomed thought.

Eve wakes him, panicking. “Lord Crowley!”

He sits up sharply “What?” he replies, but his words are sloppy and run together.

“Oh thank the Lord,” she rips back the bed curtains. “I couldn’t find you and I thought Lady Burningstone had done something.”

Crowley rubs the sleep from his eyes. “I’m here.”

“Well get in your room before you cause gossip!” she reprimands.

Crowley sleepily slides out of their bed and pads into his own suite. The fire is lit and the window shutters are open. Eve tuts and pushes him toward the basin, where hot water steams.

“Wash your face.”

He follows orders, striping his nightshirt off and setting to scrubbing himself clean. As he does so, Eve mutters about sleeping in the wrong bed and scaring her witless. He ignores her and dries off.

“Trousers or skirt?”

“Whatever,” he says around a jaw-cracking yawn.

She glares and holds out a mid-length shift. He takes it without her help and slips it over his head.

“Lord Aziraphale might have returned in the night and found you in his bed,” she finally scolds. “Imagine the gossip.”

Crowley sighs and sits at the dressing table to tie on his scent cuffs.

“You mind me, my lord!”

He looks at her in their reflection. “This really has upset you.”

She braces her hands on her hips and glares at him. “If Lady Burningstone had seen that, how could we have kept you safe? How would I explain that to your betrothed?”

Crowley frowns and rubs his hand down the length of his throat. “Right. Yep. Didn’t think of that.”

She turns her back on him, clearly still perturbed. She holds up the same black muslin dress he arrived at Zionview Grove in for him to consider. He stares at it. He is still in mourning, yet he’s also about to announce his engagement. He’s not sure how his sister would take any of this. Eve senses his hesitancy and sets it on the bed. Instead, she offers him an Omega style shirt in black and matching tight trousers. He nods and she helps him dress.

There is no waistcoat to accompany this, but a burgundy wool stay, which Eve laces up his back. It flares out at his thighs, like a short skirt. He steps into his boots, then sits for her to brush his hair. She twists it quickly up into a simple chignon and pulls some of his natural curls down to frame his face.

“If you do it again,” she finally says, “be up before the maids light the fire.”

She tucks his shawl around his shoulders and settles his straw sunbonnet on his head. Crowley obediently ties the ribbon under his chin and stands for inspection. She considers him, then looks around.

“Where is your parasol? Fan? Walking stick? Your reticule… or your purse?”

Shame licks at him again. “I’ve no need for a sovereign purse or reticule to carry it in. I’ve no money.”

Eve seems to interpret this to mean, correctly, that he also lacks the other accessories. “No matter. Keep your head up, Lord Crowley.”

Then she grabs his night garments and holds the door open for him. He nods to her and descends into the saloon. Lady Fellthrop is already waiting.

“Good morning,” he greets her, “I hope you’re better rested.”

She smiles warmly and returns his greeting. “I feel much better, thank you. Your company was very welcome last night.”

Crowley begins to say something further, but Lady Dowling and Blanc join them from their rooms. Hearing the collection of voices, Anathema and Newt enter from the library.

“I believe we are all gathered,” Lady Fellthrop says. “We’ll meet my sister-in-law and mother-in-law at the Dowager House.”

Two carriages await them and as they’re organizing themselves into traveling groups, Lucifer strides out of the house, walking stick in hand and hat on his head. He walks right up to his wife and takes her elbow.

“We shall ride with my brother,” he states and Crowley obediently joins them.

They squish into the second carriage with Lady Dowling. Crowley rides backward with her, while his sister-in-law sits with her husband.

“What are we shopping for, sweeting?” Lucifer asks Blanc. “Ribbons? Buttons?”

Crowley’s heart breaks for Blanc in moments like these. This must have been the man that courted her. Lucifer is tactile and attentive today. He takes her hand in his and twines their fingers together. Blanc blushes prettily and leans her shoulder against his.

“I have no need for anything, husband,” she admits. “I was going to enjoy the sight of Tadfield.”

“Nonsense,” he argues and smiles indulgently at her. “Let me get you accouterments. We are celebrating, after all.”

They flirt quietly and Lady Dowling addresses Crowley.

“Your brother was very lucky at the table last night.”

“Has he lightened Lord Dowling’s pocketbook?”

Lady Dowling titters attractively and adjusts her bonnet. “He has it to lose.”

Lucifer shakes his head, “What are a few shillings between friends? It’s the money I lost to him the night before. We’ll pass it back and forth for a few days.”

The carriage slows and they are escorted out. The Dowager House is a stone cottage off the green in Tadfield. Lady Michael and Lord Sandalphon meet them at the gate.

“The Dowager begs us to forgive her,” Lady Michael says, “she’s out of sorts this morning and will join us shortly.”

Without further ado, she takes her husband’s hand and leads them toward the shops. Lady Dowling falls into step with Lady Fellthrope, Anathema flanks Newt, followed by Lucifer and Blanc. With a disappointed sigh, Crowley trails the couples as the unmarried Omega once more. He wonders what Aziraphale is doing at the moment. Has he met with the Bishop? Will he even be allowed to schedule an appointment soon or will this stretch out over multiple days?

A grey cloud circles him as Crowley considers that he might be days away from his Alpha. Tadfield is already bustling with early morning trade. The busiest shop is the one they head directly for. In a small town such as Tadfield the stand-alone shops are combined. The miller, glover, and carpet shop joined here to be one building. It buzzed with activity and their party joined the crowd there.

Crowley studies the hanging cravats and hose that line the window of the shop. There are hats, umbrellas, and any number of other items. Lucifer draws his wife’s eye over to the collection of fans and encourages her to pick one. Crowley drifts behind them like a shadow. It would be nice to shop, of course, but, with a depressed sigh, he’s no money to buy anything with, so why bother looking.

Anathema appears at his side. “Not in the mood for such finery, Lord Crowley?”

A shopkeeper holds up a pair of muffs for Newt to choose between. The padded cylinders are made for Omega to tuck their hands inside to stay warm. Newt is clearly deciding between a white fur muff with black spots or a blue feather one. He looks over to Anathema for her opinion. She waves at him, suggesting that his opinion is all that matters.

Crowley folds his gloved hands over the front of his stay. “Lady Burningstone holds my pocket money,” he lies.

Anathema stares at him and her glasses flash. “If you see something that you like, I’ll be happy to purchase it for you. Lady Burningstone can repay me when we return to Zionview Grove.”

It’s tempting, but Crowley shakes his head. “She does not like to be in debt to anyone.”

The moment the lie is verbalized, Crowley knows he’s said the wrong thing. Anathema is well aware of the Dame’s financial missteps. She looks at him calculatingly.

“You don’t have any pocket money, I take it.”

He looks away from her and allows his sunhat to hide his expression.

“Then let me buy you something and AZ can repay me,” Anathema encourages him with a nudge to his shoulder.

Crowley doesn’t immediately agree, but he wanders after his brother and his wife and looks at the items more closely. He’s never been given free rein in a shop. Even ordering new clothes was done with limitations of the style. He could often choose the fabric or color, but little else.

All around him people haggle over prices and quality. Lucifer pulls Blanc over and they study intricate buttons before selecting an expensive set of three. Crowley leans over their shoulders to see their choice. They’re painted with landscapes.

He steps back and looks away. Lady Dowling inspects a new soft muslin cap for in the house. Lady Fellthrop says something about it before lifting a different one for consideration. Newt has clearly chosen the fur muff and he nuzzles Anathema’s cheek in thanks. A flair of jealousy weaves through him.

Eve had given him a list of things that an Omega gentleman needed. Crowley looks around him and sees everything from that morning’s prompting. He could have everything from a fan to a dressing gown. But if he ordered something and then Aziraphale was beholden to repaying Anathema. He glances over at Lucifer. His brother tucks Lady Blanc’s shawl over her shoulder more securely. Every time she went shopping like this, her mating mark was renewed in exchange.

Anxiety creeps up his spine and the shop seems too loud, too crowded. Ignoring decorum, he escapes his brother and their party and steps out into the street. The morning air already promises later heat. Crowley exhales and looks around him. The flower box across the lane is lined with Sweet Williams. With a quick glance around him, Crowley crosses and studies the flowers.

They’re a strong specimen in rosy pink and sharp white contrasted petals. He’s always thought they were too perfumed. Even so, he touches their leaves and petals with his gloved fingers. Would Aziraphale like a posey for his bedside? He imagines threading the small blossoms into those white-blond curls. The pink would gleam against his Alpha’s bare skin.

“Crowley!” Lucifer barks and he whips around to face his brother.

Lucifer’s expression is thunderous. Blanc trails after him, embarrassed. She clutches her brown paper wrapped purchase to her chest.

“What do you think you are doing? You can’t just wander off!”

Crowley doesn’t argue.

“This is how you’re going to be now? A single Alpha gives you some leeway and you’re going off the rails! You’re not betrothed officially, _darling_. You still need to heed your betters.”

It’s the “darling” that does it. Lucifer has always referred to Crowley that way when he’s testy with him. It’s never bothered Crowley before, except now it does. Visceral memory surges. Yesterday afternoon, naked in Aziraphale’s den, wrapped in strong, soft arms being called “darling” in a way that made him feel cherished. Touches and sighs. The scent of pears mingling with cedar. No, darling is no longer something Lucifer can taunt him with.

Crowley gives a crisp nod and returns into the shop, ignoring his brother’s snarls and growls as he yells at him.

“Crowley, get back here!”

He marches in the door and ignores all the curious looks that strangers give him. With his head held high, he approaches Anathema.

“Lady Device,” he begins and she grins at him, “were you honestly offering to loan me some money?”

Her grin softens, “Of course I was, Lord Crowley. You’re my cousin’s betrothed. It’s not as if you can escape the debt!”

Crowley hears Lucifer ranting outside the shop and he walks further away from the door.

“Has something caught your eye?” she asks and the shopkeeper who has been assisting her and her husband hurry to their side.

Many things have, he admits privately. Aloud he says, “Might I look at some ribbons?”

He does not need more ribbons and the colors are the same that they were when the Dame brought him through some weeks prior. He’s tempted to buy one just to say he made a purchase, but it seems wasteful. As he’s considering the hanging rack, his eyes land on a small circular tin. He lifts it up.

“It’s nail powder polish, my lord,” the shopkeeper informs, her smile wide. “That’s the very least exciting color—black.”

“I’d like it if it’s not too costly,” he stutters.

“It’s fourpence, my lord,” the shopkeep replies, already hurrying to tie it up. “But since it’s so poorly selling, how about we make it three.”

Nervously, Crowley looks over at Anathema. She sees his glance and her brow furrows.

“What?”

“I, well,” he clears this throat, “is that too costly?”

Anathema tilts her head. “Compared to what?”

Crowley bites his lip and ducks his head, hiding in his sunbonnet. “I don’t know how much I can borrow from you. I’m not sure how much Aziraphale would be willing to—“

“Oh, honey,” Anathema interrupts, “AZ would pull down the moon for you. You haven’t even spent a shilling, he’ll be willing to pay it back with interest if it would make you happy.”

She walks around him then and settles her bill. When she returns, she hands her husband his new accessory and Crowley his tiny paper package.

“Shall we find Lady Michael?” Newt suggests.

Anathema and he link arms and Crowley falls into step behind them. As they approach the entrance, Lady Dowling and Lady Fellthrop join them.

“It seems our party is ready to move on,” Lady Fellthrop says.

“We were noticing that Lady Michael and Lord Sandalphon seem to have disappeared,” Newt replies, looking around the street as they exit.

“Oh they’ve gone to fetch Mama,” Lady Fellthrop dismisses. “She gets fussy and needs an audience.”

The gossip makes Anathema and Newt share a glance and Crowley rolls his eyes. His brother and Blanc are leaving the post office. They rejoin the party.

“It’s strange that no post has reached me,” Lucifer notes, and Crowley’s gut clenches. “The postmaster here assured me that letters have reached Zionview Grove, but could not tell me if any of it were addressed to me.”

Crowley exhales in relief and chances a glance at Anathema. She seems relieved as well. Their carriages wait at Dowager House.

“Should we stay and bid Lady Michael goodbye? We haven’t seen much of them this morning,” Blanc asks.

Lady Fellthrop makes a face and her driver opens the door to the carriage for her. “We’ll see them at dinner. Let them handle the Dowager’s histrionics. They’re better at it than I am.”

Crowley decides to sit with his hostess, but before he can, Lucifer’s hand drops onto his shoulder.

“Come now, brother, ride with us and tell us about your shopping.”

Lucifer helps Blanc and Crowley into the carriage, then closes the door after he climbs in, forcing the others to ride together with Lady Fellthrop. Blanc and Crowley ride backward and Lucifer watches them both like they are racehorses. The carriage bumps alone and they’re silent. Whatever brightness existed between Lucifer and Blanc this morning is dimmed. Blanc worries the hem of her sleeves.

“I’d like to hear your explanation for your behavior today,” Lucifer says.

Crowley clutches his purchase. “Which part would you like me to account for?”

Lucifer’s lip curls back to show his canines. “Your cheek, darling, is not welcome here.”

Crowley tramps down on his personality and forces himself into the persona he often portrays with his family. It’s harder to do this morning. He’s been able to be himself and, instead of being found wanting, he has been accepted.

Crowley lowers his gaze to the floor. “I became overwhelmed in the store.”

“So you left.”

“I thought the air would do me well,” Crowley says, honestly.

Lucifer hums thoughtfully. “I wonder if you’ve been introduced too quickly to all this.”

Crowley’s heart hammers. “Perhaps I should avoid the shops for a while, then, until I better get my footing in society.”

“Or perhaps we should get you home to Tophet.”

Crowley’s mouth dries and his pulse races. “I am going to stay at Zionview Grove, brother, and wait for my mate to return so we can be wed.”

He measures each word as he speaks, anticipating the explosion. Lucifer, however, is curiously calm.

“He’s your mate now, is he?” he drawls.

“He’s not claimed, husband,” Blanc argues. “But, like me, he knew his Alpha when he saw him.”

Lucifer taps his walking stick rhythmically on the floor of the carriage. “Or he’s thrown himself at Lord Aziraphale and ruined any hopes of a satisfactory marriage. Who would take a used doll?”

Lucifer sneers at Crowley and the Omega closes his eyes. He might have felt shame some weeks before, knowing that he’s lying about his chastity. However, he can find no guilt now. Instead, he thinks to the heavy, wanting look that Aziraphale cast onto him when he saw Crowley in his tailcoat.

“He’s not abandoned me, brother.”

Lucifer’s walking stick appears in Crowley’s view and the tip of it taps his chin. Using the cane, Lucifer raises his brother’s head until they look at one another.

“This engagement is completely dependent upon you cementing better relations between our families,” he says.

“Of course.”

“Husband,” Blanc begins, but Lucifer speaks over her, his voice still calm and smooth.

The tip of his cane presses lightly against Crowley’s Adam’s apple. “And with that new connection will come the financial security our family desires.”

The walking stick digs into his throat.

“And since the language of ‘bride price’ is now a point of contention, you’ll need to secure this money with a different name.”

He presses harder and Crowley grunts. Blanc frets and reaches over to grab her husband’s cane. Lucifer is quick and uses it like a baton. He hits his wife’s hands where she’s moved to intercept it. Then, with another blow, he swings it back and strikes her across the cheek. Blanc cries out in pain. Crowley throws himself in front of her, practically sitting on her knees to shield her.

“Do not hit your wife!” he shouts.

From outside the carriage, Crowley hears the driver ask them if everything is all right. Lucifer ignores them but swings his cane back again. Crowley prepares for the blow and turns his face slightly and closes his eyes. The cane clubs into the side of his skull and light flashes across his vision. Crowley falls against the side of the carriage, his weight collapsed onto his sister-in-law’s lap. Blanc sobs and Crowley gasps.

Lucifer lowers his walking stick to the floor once more, loosely held between his knees. Crowley eases back onto the seat, pressed close to the other Omega. Blanc hides her stinging cheek under her gloved hand and turns her face into Crowley’s shoulder. Their side of the carriage smells like fear. Lucifer’s side has no noticeable scent.

“Now,” Lucifer continues, silkily, “as I was saying. You’re going to need to convince your _mate_ to provide some funding for your transition into married life. If that is money directly into your pocket that then moves back into Tophet’s purse, then so be it.

“Do you understand?” He asks while tapping his cane against Crowley’s shin.

There is a moment when things seem to slow down. In retrospect, Crowley should have seen it coming. Blanc pulls away from him and like a wild animal, shrieks and throws herself across the carriage. She tears into her husband’s face with her fingernails.

“Money! Always money!” she screams.

Lucifer backhands her so hard that she wilts to the floor. It’s a small space and he barely needs to move from his reclining position to do so. He grabs her under the arm and yanks her up, then shoves her onto the seat across from him. Crowley grabs her and pulls her back against him, trying to shield her with his body once more.

His brother stands as much as he can in the carriage, bent in half and he raises his cane again like a cricket bat. It’s as if all the rage that has ever coursed through him now flies free. He swings the walking stick down on them repeatedly. The blows are fast and hard, even with the limited mobility for his swings within the carriage. Crowley cannot tell who takes more of them, him or Blanc. She’s screaming and crying and Crowley feels the carriage stop as he yells and kicks, trying to defend them.

Lucifer will not be stopped, even as the carriage door opens and the driver shouts. Blood runs down Crowley’s nose and into his mouth. He curls protectively over his sister-in-law as the cane strikes his back.

Then, suddenly, it’s over.

The driver has Lucifer by the coat and is pulling him out of the carriage, but the fight has gone out of him. He drops his walking stick back down as it is intended, nonchalantly. Then, he doubles back down the lane, walking as if he’s out for a stroll.

It’s hard to breathe between the taste of blood, the spots spinning before his eyes, and the pain in his ribs. Blanc has fainted and lays sprawled across the seat and floor, her skirts tangled around them. Their friends are now at the carriage door.

“Her hat is crushed,” Crowley says, absently.

Anathema climbs in over Blanc’s awkward skirts and grips Crowley by the scuff of the neck.

“I need you to sit over here, ok?” she orders and helps him sit in the seat that Lucifer vacated.

He’s incapable to ignoring an Alpha’s request at that moment. He sits where she directs. Anathema bends over Blanc and tries to rouse her. Someone must decide it’s best to get them back to Zionview Grove because the carriage door closes and they bump down the road. Crowley watches, detachedly, as Blanc’s eyes open, struggle to focus, then slide shut again. Anathema pulls the Omega onto the seat with her head pillowed in her lap.

“We’ll fetch the doctor,” she says, hoping to keep him calm.

He closes his eyes and lets the next hours fly by him in snatches of memory. He and Blanc are taken to their rooms. Lord Fellthrop sends for the doctor. Eve forces him to drink water. The Dame stands at his bedside and looks down at him, detachedly. The doctor presses the knots on his skull. A footman delivers a crate. Eve helps him out of his bloodstained clothes and into a clean nightshirt. A maid brings flowers. The doctor returns and prods at his ribs and spine.

Then, slowly, he feels more like himself. Time realigns. Crowley blinks slowly and his room comes into focus. He’s tucked into his bed and fire roars on the hearth. Lady Michael sits, in full vestments, with her husband at the table and chairs in the corner. With a groan, Crowley pulls himself into the sitting position. Michael sets her book aside and walks over to him.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

Crowley considers the pain that radiates from every part of his head, neck, shoulders, back and torso. “Like I’ve been beaten with a cane.”

Michael winces, “Sorry. Stupid question.”

Crowley gingerly touches his cheek and jaw. “It seems you were right to tell me to make your brother stay with me.”

Sandalphon looks questioningly between them.

Michael hugs herself. “What in the world made Lord Lucifer do this?”

“Money,” Crowley spits and his lip splits open.

“That stupid bride price again?” she asks, angrily.

“Or anyway he could get it. Then Blanc tried to get him to stop threatening me and he stuck her. She went on the tear. I think she clawed his face. He just… started hitting us,” his voice softens and drifts away.

The room descends into silence and Sandalphon, the imbecile, tries to lighten the mood.

“A package came from Aziraphale for you!” he exclaims and points to the medium-sized, wooden crate.

Crowley can’t help it, a hiccup that is very sob-like escapes him. “He did?”

Michael pats his leg through the bedding. “I believe I was supposed to remind you that he’s in love with you right about now.”

Crowley swallows through his tight throat. “Would you open it?”

It takes a ring of the bell and the provision of a crowbar to loose the nails, but they do indeed open it. From inside, Sandalphon slides free a canvas.

“Oh, what a lovely landscape!” he exclaims.

It’s too much. Crowley begins to cry. “He got Ashtoreth’s painting for me.”

Michael helps her husband set the painting on the mantle so that Crowley can see it from his bed.

“There’s a note too,” Sandalphon says handing it over along with his handkerchief.

Crowley breaks the seal and lifts the letter to his nose. He is instantly comforted by the scent of pears. His tears increase and he wipes ineffectually at his eyes.

“We’ll give you a moment,” Michael says and they depart.

He weeps, openly, for several moments. Then, after blowing his nose, he unfolds the letter and reads Aziraphale’s writing.

_My dear Crowley,_

_As you can see, I have stopped at Tophet. First, I am under strict instructions to tell you that “Nanny is very happy for you” and that she will be on the next mail coach to reprimand you should you fail to write her this instant._

_Second, I pray this more traditional courting gift meets your exacting standards. I believe I have already set the bar with our more private gift. I am off to Oxford directly and will return to you as soon as I can._

_Stay strong, my darling,_

_Aziraphale_

Once read, he rolls onto his side and hugs the letter to his chest. His caring and generous Alpha is courting him in the most thoughtful way possible. Crowley feels a little unkind. He doesn’t want a gift right now—not even something so treasured as his sister’s painting.

He wants his mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> \- Ok, in my defense, Satan is LITERALLY Crowley's brother. 
> 
> \- Musical scores were incredibly expensive (see previous notes about the cost/tax on paper). Families would buy a score and loan it to neighbors who would hand copy the songs onto lined sheet music. A number of Jane Austen's hand-copied songbooks are in the British Library.
> 
> \- "Scottish songs" and "Irish songs" could be just normal love songs, or they could be really dirty. Ladies could get away with this by singing in an accent. No kidding--talk about xenophobia!
> 
> \- Regency era buttons are pieces of art. Google them!  
> \- Shillings, pence, pounds, groats, crowns... omg, money in this era is confusing. I'm not even going to try to explain it. It's that convoluted. Look up the Horrible History's sketch, trust me.  
> \- Nail varnish as we know it did not exist until the 1920s. The ancient Chinese used henna long before Europeans thought of it, but it wasn't black. So for Crowley's sake and fashion sense, suspend disbelief, please.  
> \- Satan does indeed call Crowley "darling" in canon, though the Bentley's radio as he's delivering the anti-christ to the nuns


	8. Chapter 8

It’s midday on Sunday when Aziraphale rides up to the front door of Zionview Grove. His saddle is loaded down with packages and he gives a little wiggle of anticipation. He imagines that Crowley will rush out to greet him. He will swing the Omega up into his arms and then shower him with kisses and gifts. Then, the reunion begun, they’ll hold hands as they enter the house and accept excited congratulations from their families and friends when they show off the Bishop’s approval for their Common license.

He’s a little hurt when there is no fanfare. Crowley doesn’t even come to meet him. In fact, _no one_ comes to meet him. His horse stamps his feet as they stop outside the front doors. The stallion is already looking for his groom and some good hay.

As he dismounts and pulls the reins over his horse’s nose, the door opens, and the footman Johnson and the butler exit. Aziraphale is stunned, they seem emotional. Unease rolls in his belly.

“Lord Aziraphale!” Shadwell exclaims, relieved, his usually hidden brogue breaking into his speech. “Thank goodness you’re home. You’re needed in the drawing-room immediately.”

It’s the way the man says it that makes Aziraphale’s heart clench. “Is everything all right?”

Johnson takes the reins and studies the horse, intentionally not making eye contact.

Shadwell ignores the question and directs the footman. “Take these things upstairs for his lordship, Johnson.”

These clues mixed with Crowley’s absence make his inner Alpha perk up. He does not wait for additional information but hurries up the steps and into the house. Shadwell tails him and he passes the butler his riding coat and hat as he marches through the saloon. The house is so quiet. It just furthers his disquiet.

Shadwell steps between him and the door to the drawing-room, still holding his outerwear. He pushes open the door to announce Aziraphale, “The Earl of Fellthrop, my lord.”

Aziraphale enters and takes in the room. The entire family is there, it seems. His mother and Uriel sit on a sofa across from Lady Burningstone. Gabriel and Sandalphon stand beside Michael’s chair. Lord Dowling hovers behind his wife, who is standing in front of another occupied armchair. Aziraphale immediately notes Crowley’s absence, but also Lord Lucifer’s. Michael stands and approaches him and he takes in her outfit—she’s here as the local vicar. Lady Burningstone does not even look up when he enters.

“Where is my mate?” he asks, his voice somewhere between alarm and desperation.

“Brother mine,” Gabriel begins, but Lady Blanc interrupts him.

At first, she is hidden by Lady Dowling, but when Lady Blanc speaks, she moves to sit on the chair arm, protectively. The side of Lady Blanc’s face is bruised and her nose is broken, so her words are strangely warped, “My husband attacked him.”

As the words are spoken, Aziraphale is running. The saloon blurs past him in a riot of color as he races to Crowley’s bedroom. He throws open the door to find Crowley sitting up, forlornly in his bed. He turns his face and makes a soft exclamation when he sees Aziraphale. His face is covered in blue and purple bruises. His lip is split and his eyes are swollen and surrounded in black.

“Crowley!” he cries and rushes to his Omega.

Crowley heaves a relieved sob and clutches his side as he tries to reach for him. Aziraphale feels like he’s two people at once. He is a rational man, but also a fierce, angry creature. He feels this torn when he goes into rut, but this is unlike that deep sexual hunger. This is a primal need to protect. He does not question it. He pulls back Crowley’s bedding and lifts him carefully into his arms.

“I’ll take you to our nest,” he says, his voice soft to his mate, but still a declaration.

Crowley tucks his injured face under Aziraphale’s chin and nuzzles all along his throat. Even as he does this it’s careful, as if every movement hurts. Aziraphale throws open the bolt to the door that connects their rooms and carries Crowley across the threshold. Servants bustle around the room in various chores. Some are unloading his new packages onto his desk, whiles others light the fire, air the room, and fill his drinking water pitcher. They all look up in surprise when Aziraphale enters.

“When you finish there,” he orders Johnson, “bring up the bathtub and hot water. Some food, also.”

He sets Crowley carefully on the bed and then circles it, drawing the bed curtains closed to hide him from the staff. At the last curtain panel, he reaches out and softly touches Crowley’s chin.

“Stay there, Omega,” he says as he shuts it. “I’ll be right back.”

Knowing that Crowley is tucked into safe darkness, Aziraphale opens the trunk at the foot of his bed and digs inside until he finds his sword. He unsheathes it and tests its blade. It’s sharp—a trustworthy weapon. Peggy, the maid at the fire hearth, looks terrified even after he slides the blade back into its scabbard and attached it to his belt.

“Leave the extra fuel when you go,” he orders her.

Peggy grabs her bucket and flees, leaving the spare logs behind her. Wensleydale and Johnson follow her, with concerned looks thrown back over their shoulders. Aziraphale dismisses them and returns to Crowley’s room. He pulls the door shut behind him and slides the lock. Then he moves to Crowley’s drawers and hunts for soft clothing. He touches Crowley’s nightshirts and frowns. The muslin is coarse and cheap. His shifts are similar. Frustrated, but limited in his options, he selects the best of these and lays them over his arm. He finds the linen shawl Crowley wore a few days prior and again frowns at its quality.

His mate deserves fine things, not these cast-offs. With a dissatisfied sniff, he lays it across his arm too. He collects Crowley’s hairbrush, ribbons, sunglasses, and sewing bag. He takes Ashtoreth’s painting from its place above the fireplace and Crowley’s sketchbook and pencils from the side table. With one last gaze around the room, his strange duality makes him sniff the air.

He smells himself, but elsewhere. He walks to Crowley’s bed and finds the letter that accompanied the painting on the bedside table. He collects it. Then, with another sniff, he bends down and follows his pear oil scent to between the mattresses. Aziraphale smiles at his clever mate and pulls this letter free.

With his bounty, he strides out of the room and back into his own via the hallway. He kicks the bedroom door shut and places his treasures around the room. Crowley’s clean clothes go in a drawer, his letters safe on the table next to his sketchpad, Ashtoreth’s painting on the mantle, mirroring its home in the other room, and his brush, ribbons, and sunglasses sit on the dressing table.

Satisfied, he pulls open the curtain to the bed and slides in. Crowley is exactly where he left him. Immediately, a chuff of pleasure rolls out of Aziraphale’s lungs. Such an obedient and good mate, he thinks with that strange innate voice.

“My darling,” he whispers, cupping Crowley’s face. “My dearest one. Crowley, forgive me for not being here,” he begs, his rational mind in control.

His sword drags on the bed as he sits with his back to the headboard. The Omega wraps around him like a snake. He brushes his wrist scent glands across his cheekbones, smearing cedar scent onto his skin, then rubbing it into Aziraphale’s neck as he nuzzles into his throat and chest. Pleased, the Alpha kisses the top of his head and arranges him in his arms, safely. Crowley hides his face submissively under Aziraphale’s chin.

“Nothing to forgive, angel.”

Before he can argue that he has much to make up for, there is a knock at the door. Aziraphale lays Crowley back down on the bed, tucks him in the duvet, and slides back out of the bed curtains. He rolls his shoulders and selects a defensive posture and unsheathes his sword.

“Come,” he calls.

Quartermaster’s eyes widen when he opens the door and sees Aziraphale with his weapon at the ready.

“Your Grace?” he stumbles over his words. “We’ve brought the bathtub and the water.”

“Excellent. Set it up.”

The staff must know that Aziraphale is not to be trifled with at the moment because nearly an army of them thunder in. Footmen carry the tub and maids haul buckets of hot water. Someone closes the windows. The scullery maid, whom Aziraphale has never seen above stairs outside of the holidays, appears with a picnic hamper of food. They move like a swarm of bees. Aziraphale watches them all in action with a steady gaze. One-by-one, their requirements filled, they leave.

Once they’re gone, he scabbards his blade and locks the door. Then, for a safety measure, he slides a chair under the doorknob. It takes some work to get the tall dresser pressed against the door between their bedrooms, but once it’s in place, he relaxes. He undoes the belt and lays his sword across the top of the trunk.

He closes his eyes and centers himself. With the same calm movements, he unknots his cravat, removes his tailcoat and scent cuffs, and lays these garments over the seat at the dressing table. As he walks to their nest, he rolls up his sleeves.

“Crowley, my dear, it’s safe now,” he assures and opens the bed curtains.

The Omega is again unmoved from the position his Alpha laid him in. Aziraphale chuffs again and Crowley smiles, even as it opens up the cut on his lip.

“You’re fussing over me, angel,” he says.

His eyes reflect his pleasure at seeing Aziraphale, but also the serenity of knowing that his Alpha will keep him safe. Aziraphale carefully touches some unblemished skin at Crowley’s hairline with his thumb, then leans down a softly kisses his mouth, heedless of the blood.

“You deserve to be fussed over. Will you let me take care of you?” he asks.

“Will you let me kiss you?”

“Of course,” he answers and Crowley’s lips meet his as soon as the words are spoken.“Now then, you’ll let me take care of you?”

“Course,” Crowley says, repeating Aziraphale’s words back to him.

With this permission, he pulls the hem of Crowley’s nightshirt over his head and discards it on the floor. His chest is wrapped in tight bandages and Aziraphale stares at it. Crowley looks away then, embarrassed.

“I bruised or cracked a rib. The doctor isn’t sure.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Aziraphale growls in promise, turning Crowley’s chin carefully so they face one another again. “He will pay for how he’s hurt you, my love.”

Crowley’s right eye is more swollen than the left and he lets it slide shut now. “I shouldn’t have given him the chance. I shouldn’t have taunted him earlier and I shouldn’t have stayed in the carriage with him—I should have run away.”

“You shouldn’t have been forced to make such decisions. _I_ should have been here,” Aziraphale finds the end of the bandage and tugs it free. “Is there a large laceration under here I should know of?”

“He didn’t use a blade,” Crowley answers and fights to sit up. “It was his walking stick.”

His face contours in pain and Aziraphale hurries to cup his lean back and help him rise, even as his mind considers what he’s just been told. “Take it slow, my love.”

Crowley leans against him and gingerly swings his legs off the side of the bed.

“He hit you with his cane?” Aziraphale clarifies, his words slow and measured. It won’t do to become angry, no matter how enraged in his Alpha roars. “Will you tell me exactly what happened?”

And he does. From the choking to the beating, Crowley recounts the events in a nearly detached way. When he finishes, Aziraphale’s knees weaken and he sinks to the floor beside the bed. His hands rest on the mattress on either side of Crowley’s hips and his head bows forward.

“Forgive me, my love. Forgive me for not protecting you.”

Crowley’s hand brushes through his blond curls. “Angel. I accept your apology as my third courting gift.”

Aziraphale’s head shoots up and his eyes widen. “No, Crowley, I brought you so many gifts—“

“I just want you.”

And with those words, his secondary gender swings back into control. He growls and presses his face into Crowley’s hip bone while he rubs his wrists on the Omega’s bare shins. He wants to scent his mate all over, but his rational mind reminds him of the bruises. Aziraphale stands, then continues his scenting, carefully selecting places to rub his oil. Crowley keens then leans into him and kisses him greedily. Crowley tries to deepen the kiss, but Aziraphale pulls away.

“Let me take care of you, my dear.”

With Crowley so close, it’s easier to unwind the bandage. His beautiful torso is a smattering of bruises and small cuts. These are mostly centered on his right side, but a few long stripes of bruise cross his spine. Aziraphale traces one across his freckled back. It is, without a doubt, the same shape and size as a walking stick. He checks himself before the anger can take control and lifts Crowley from the bed like a fainting bride.

The bathtub is in front of the fire and he settles his Omega into the water one foot at a time. “Is it too hot?”

“No, it’s lovely,” Crowley replies and sits down.

The tub isn’t long enough for his slender body to stretch out in. Crowley adjusts his legs so that his knees are exposed and he submerges his torso. The water laps at his shoulders and his loose plait of hair darkens as it is wet. Aziraphale hurries to unbutton his shirt and he tugs it off. With a few quick rolls, it’s a pillow and he fits it between Crowley’s shoulder blades and the metal washtub. Then the Alpha kneels by the tub and rests his arms on the side. He rests his chin on his arms and watches his mate soak.

Crowley, for his part, sinks right into being worshipped. He closes his eyes and rests under his mate’s watch. In time, Aziraphale’s rises to attend to the many presents he returned with. Among them, he finds the finely milled soap and raises it to his nose. It’s the most expensive soap he’s ever purchased: a creamy lotion bar without scent. Aziraphale cannot imagine covering up that lovely cedar scent of his Omega. He selects clean flannels from his washstand and returns to the fireside. Crowley opens his eyes when he feels Aziraphale dip the smaller fabric into the water.

“Rest, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers. “I’m going to take care of you.”

He lathers up the flannel and then reaches into the depth of the tub for one of Crowley’s arms. He rubs soap bubbles onto his skin, cleaning away dried blood and sweat tenderly. He switches arms, then begins on his mate’s chest.

Even as gentle as he is, Crowley hisses with pain around his injured side. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

“Enough of that. I already accepted your apology.”

Aziraphale returns to his efforts and tries to avoid the angry bruises and open cuts. He enjoys washing every part of his mate. He works his way down his legs to his feet, then back up across his neck. He leans down and kisses Crowley’s lips tentatively when he begins to wipe the cloth over and between his buttock.

Crowley’s eyes are too swollen to hold the same drowsy attraction they did before, but Aziraphale recognizes the way his mate licks at his lower lip. 

“None of that yet, my dear,” he scolds, “I need to wash your hair first.”

Crowley whines, needy but obedient. He allows Aziraphale to wipe the flannel over his face and follow it with kisses to unmarred patches of skin. Aziraphale helps his mate sit forward, then pulls the damp ribbon from his lover’s hair and pours bath water over it from his washbasin pitcher. Aziraphale works a lather from the same bar of soap between his hands and carefully rubs it into Crowley’s hair and scalp. He feels the bumps on his beloved’s skull and has to keep the flare of emotion under control once more. This is not the time for revenge, he repeats to himself. Crowley needs him. It takes four or five pours of water to rinse it clean again, and by then Crowley is clearly hurting.

“Up you go, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, offering his hands to his mate.

Crowley stands, uneasily and leans heavily on his Alpha. Aziraphale wraps a wide flannel around him and lifts him easily from the tub.

“I didn’t buy you any fine nightclothes,” he laments, carefully drying Crowley with the fabric. “I will sort it out tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Crowley asks, and his voice takes on a sudden anxious tone.

“Absolutely not. I am here with you in this den until you feel stronger and until I feel it’s safe again,” Aziraphale says firmly.

He does not mention that it’s unclear how he knows it’s unsafe at the moment. Crowley does not argue or question. Instead, he submits to being bundled in the bath flannel and stood by the fire, while Aziraphale finds three of his softest linen cravats. He wraps them, layer upon layer, around Crowley’s chest.

“Is this too tight?” he asks as he winds.

“Nah, feels just like the other bandage did. Only softer.”

A pleasant rumble begins low in Aziraphale’s chest and Crowley raises his chin to expose his throat immediately.

“Oh, my sweet boy, what a treasure you are,” he responds softly reaching up with his wrist and smearing his scent oil onto Crowley’s neck. He is careful to rub his scent over the bundle of nerves at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He’d planned to place Crowley’s mating mark there in just a few nights. In light of his injuries, Aziraphale reorders his timeline.

Once he’s satisfied that Crowley smells like him, he ties the bandages off and helps Crowley into a clean nightshirt. He wraps his wet hair in another bath flannel. Then, before Crowley can move, he sweeps him up into his arms and carries him back to the nest once more.

“Join me?” Crowley asks, pulling at the waist of Aziraphale’s breeches.

“Just a moment, my darling.”

Aziraphale shucks his stockings and breeches, then crouches in the bathtub for a quick scrub in Crowley’s cooling bathwater. It’s not his favorite way to bathe, but he refuses to let anyone in their den. He rubs himself dry with Crowley’s used bath flannel and when he looks up, notices that his Omega is watching him. He smiles good-naturedly, then hunts in his drawers for nightclothes for himself. It might only be early afternoon, but he’s going to be comfortable in their nest. Once dressed, he grabs a collection of things: the picnic hamper, his sword, a book, a notebook and pencil, and a few of the gifts he’d brought along.

“Are you warm enough?”

Crowley is on top of the duvet, just as Aziraphale laid him in the nest. The Alpha pulls the bedding down and climbs into the bed.

“I will be when you come here and cuddle,” Crowley admits with a raised eyebrow.

Aziraphale sets his sword on the mattress between them and the door, then settles against the pillows. He moves the duvet back and opens his arms. Crowley wiggles over and settles between his legs, pressed to Aziraphale’s chest. Immediately, the Alpha wraps the duvet around him.

The scent of pears mingles with cedar and swirls around them. Crowley finds one of Aziraphale’s arms and pushes his sleeve back to further expose his wrist. Delicately, as if the Alpha is the one injured, Crowley raises it to his mouth and presses a suckling kiss to the scent gland. Aziraphale’s head falls back against the wall with a groan when Crowley’s tongue laves the gland. The fingers close to his Omega’s face twitch as Crowley's teeth scrape his wrist and the suction from his mouth redoubles. Aziraphale is instantly hard and he knows Crowley can feel his erection against his hip.

“My darling,” he groans, “you’re going to make a mess of me.”

Crowley carefully laps at the gland, then pulls away. One yellow eye is difficult to see due to the swelling, but the other one glints with mischief. He snuggles back into Aziraphale’s chest and lets the tip of his nose brush the skin of his Alpha’s throat.

“I might like to see that,” he admits.

With an answering chuckle, Aziraphale leans over into the picnic hamper and extracts its contents. There is freshly baked bread, a hunk of cheddar, some apples, and a pair of savoy hand pies. He tears off some bread and offers it to Crowley.

“Would you like some cheese?” he asks when Crowley shyly takes the food.

He feels Crowley’s answering nod. There is no knife in the basket and Aziraphale refuses to stand and find one. He breaks some off in his hand and offers it to his mate. Crowley remains tucked against his chest, nibbling on alternates of bread or cheese. It’s apparent from the side of bites and the speed in which he chews that the actions hurt.

“I’ll order you soup soon,” Aziraphale promises. “Once we’ve rested.”

He eats his own portion with a hum of pleasure. There is nirvana: he and his mate in their nest, eating cheese. Who could have predicted that life could be so good?

He feels Crowley wince and wiggle and it dims his happiness. “Do you need to rearrange, my dear?”

“‘Sjust my ribs hurt. And my back. Can’t get comfortable, but I don’t want to move. You’re warm… and I want to be with you,” he admits, embarrassed.

Aziraphale is unable to keep from beaming at his mate. “I know the feeling well, my dear.” He considers how Crowley is currently sitting and bruise patterns. “Do you trust me?”

“Course I do, angel!” Crowley says in a rush.

Another deep rumble escapes the Alpha and Crowley’s answering sigh has the edges of a pleased whine. Aziraphale pushes back the duvet and rearranges himself and the pillows. Then he bullies Crowley to roll onto his stomach and lay between the Alpha’s legs so his chest and head are pillowed on his belly and pectorals. Crowley wiggles until he’s comfortable, then relaxes suddenly with a dramatic exhale. The pained lines around his eyes ease and he lets his weight slump onto his Alpha’s body.

“There, how is that?” Aziraphale asks as he pulls the duvet over Crowley’s back and shoulders.

“Mmm, ‘snice,” Crowley answers, intentionally rubbing his body against Aziraphale’s hard cock.

The Alpha gasps then cups the back of Crowley’s head. “No, none of that. You’re going to rest.”

Crowley harrumphs his displeasure. Aziraphale ignores him and the pulse of his own need. Instead, he pulls the wet flannel from Crowley’s hair. He keeps his wet hair on top of the duvet but spreads it out to dry. Next, he selects one of the brown paper-wrapped packages from the bed. He hands it to Crowley.

“I have some gifts for you, my dear.”

Crowley takes the present and unfolds it one-handedly. It’s uncoordinated, but he doesn’t seem to want to put the effort into sitting up or rearranging himself. He opens the paper and lifts out a sterling silver hair comb with his initials engraved on the handle. Crowley turns the comb over his in his hand and stares at the “CJH” monogram.

“I haven’t asked if you’ll take my name,” Aziraphale suddenly realizes.

“I’d like to,” Crowley answers quickly.

Aziraphale colors with delight. “Oh, thank you, my dear.” The wave of possessiveness this brings with it makes his cock jump and Crowley chuckles.

“You sure you’d like to ignore that, angel?”

Aziraphale pays no attention to the question and instead reaches for the comb. “Let me see that?”

Crowley offers the comb to him as soon as he asks and Aziraphale turns it so that he can begin to work through the long, wet locks. With a sigh of pleasure, Crowley relaxes fully again onto Aziraphale’s chest and allows his Alpha to brush through his ginger hair. Occasionally, Aziraphale will pause, lift the damp flannel and rub it through a section of hair. He works meticulously, portion by portion, combing, and drying Crowley’s hair.

“Thank you for the gift,” Crowley mutters sleepily for his chest.

“You’re welcome. I have more for you to open,” he replies.

“Mmm,” Crowley hums, “later.”

He closes his eyes and dozes while Aziraphale sees to the rest of his mane. It’s soothing to care for Crowley in this manner, he thinks as he sets the comb aside. His mate makes no complaints and asks for nothing besides Aziraphale’s continued presence. His heart stutters in pain when Crowley shifts in his sleep and rolls his head over to rest on the other cheek. His Omega mark is hidden by a swollen bump that disappears into his hairline. His injuries are mostly on this side of his body, clearly, the side that he used to shield Lady Blanc with.

“My brave darling,” he says, sliding his hand under Crowley’s curtain of hair to cup the nape of his neck.

And then Crowley begins to purr.

Aziraphale cannot breathe. The sound surrounds him like honey. He holds his Omega and lets the deep, content sound vibrate into his chest. Slowly, he rubs his thumb against that tender skin and Crowley’s hum pauses only so he can mumble his appreciation to the touch. Then it resumes and continues for a short while even after Crowley is asleep.

The daylight changes outside their window, letting the Alpha know that it is late in the afternoon. He considers his book but instead selects his pencil and notepad to begin a new shopping list. He made one before he left Zionview Grove. It was nothing but ideas for gifts for Crowley—thoughtful things, but mostly for pleasure. Having seen the contents of his clothes up close now, Aziraphale’s new list is for higher quality garments. He wishes that he’d known before. He could have returned home with items to bundle his lover in. As if knowing that he’s thinking about him, Crowley shifts in his sleep and rubs his cheek against Aziraphale’s sternum.

“Yes, my love, I’m yours,” he whispers before lowering his head to kiss Crowley’s hair.

He must hear the confirmation in his dreams, for his purr returns. Aziraphale can’t help the soft growl of pleasure that this brings forth. The Omega’s eyes open sleepily with slow blinks.

“How was your nap?”

Crowley hums and rubs his cheek on Aziraphale’s nightshirt again. “How long did I sleep?”

“I couldn’t say exactly, an hour or so? But you clearly needed it.”

Crowley frowns and turns his head so his chin rests on Aziraphale’s sternum. “Sorry, angel. Didn’t mean to leave you alone.”

“Trust me, Crowley, holding you is no punishment for me.”

Crowley smiles then, his swollen eye sliding shut once more. Aziraphale reaches down and softly brushes his thumb under this right eye. He can feel the maudlin worries warring with the Alpha demands. Crowley must see this because he cups his hand around Aziraphale’s and turns his head to kiss the Alpha’s palm.

“So, angel, did you see the Bishop?”

Aziraphale smiles with pleasure then, “I did and it turns out that Sir Pratchett’s letter was well received. We must be wed in the next three months between eight in the morning and twelve noon.”

“Awfully specific, this license.”

“Oh, nothing to fret about, dear boy. It’s all very standard,” he says, then adds with a glint to his eyes, “but as I said, Sir Pratchett’s letter was well received. The Bishop is not making us wait seven days.”

Crowley seems to interrupt that as meaning they need to get to the chapel that moment because he begins to sit up. “Let’s go. Let’s do it now.”

“No, my dear, we’re going to stay in the nest until it’s safe,” Aziraphale replies, primly.

Crowley fidgets and bites his lip. “Tomorrow morning then. We can be married tomorrow?”

Aziraphale reaches up and takes Crowley’s shoulders in his hands then pulls him back onto his chest. “If you’d like, yes. But we will need to tell our families tonight and I’m not willing to let you out of my sight or our den.”

Crowley’s eyes flit toward the door then to the bed curtains. “They don’t have to know. We could just go to the chapel and have your sister marry us. I want to be your husband, angel. I want it more than I thought I could. I want your earring and your claim.”His voice rises, nearly frantic. “They’re after money, angel. They’re going to try to get it any way they can. If we tell them, then they’ll come up with something and keep moving the wedding date. They might hurt _you_ next to keep us apart.”

Aziraphale soothes him by rubbing his hands tenderly down his back, mindful of the bandage. He’s surprised to find Crowley is trembling. “Shh, shh, my darling. Lucifer will not hurt us again.”

Aziraphale plants his feet on the bed and raises his knees to hold around Crowley’s hips. He wraps his arm across his back and cups his neck with the other hand. He curls down and presses his cheek to Crowley’s head.

“Omega,” he says, letting his voice drop in an octave and into his Alpha rumble, “you are mine. You are safe.”

And the whole situation catches up to Crowley. He collapses, limp onto Aziraphale’s chest, held tightly and pinned in all around. He gives a long whimper and then gives into heaving sobs. Tears lash from his eyes and he gasps, trying to catch his breath. Aziraphale murmurs soft words and rocks them in tiny degrees. He lifts one arm and rubs his scent oil across Crowley’s temples and neck, hoping this scent will calm him.

When Crowley’s tears slow, he sniffles for a time. Then, he tries to articulate his feelings, “My brother hurt his mate. He’d have killed me to make his point, but he beat his _mate_. She’s the mother of his child. She adores him. And he was willing to kill her. He was willing to kill me… his own brother.”

Aziraphale rains down a steady stream of kisses across Crowley’s hair and forehead. “I wish I could make this hurt less. I can’t give you any answers, but I swear to you that I would die before I lay a hand on you in anger. You never fear me.”

“I know that, angel,” Crowley sniffles and hides his swollen, beaten face in Aziraphale’s nightshirt.

His tears have wet the fabric and, as his emotions settle, he realizes this. “I’ve used you as a handkerchief, angel. Let me get you cleaned up.”

“Nonsense. I told you that I was taking care of you tonight. You’ll lie here and let me do it,” Aziraphale scolds.

He slips the wet-patched pajama over his head and gives it a toss across the foot of the bed. It covers the picnic hamper. Which, in retrospect, was unwise. He’s now naked with a beautiful, albeit horribly injured, man laying on top of him. His erection revives suddenly. Crowley wipes his dripping nose then grins, devilishly, and lets his eyebrow climb upward in amusement.

He mimics Aziraphale’s tone and pitch, “‘Just lie there and let me’,” he teases, before returning to his normal speech pattern. “Are you sure you don’t want me to touch you, angel?” His hand slides down between them and cups Aziraphale’s cock. “I’ll be so good to you, Aziraphale. I’ll show you how I learned to touch you—just the way you like.”

“You will lay still and heal,” Aziraphale growls reaching to cover Crowley’s hand with his own. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep from bucking into their joined fingers. “You, _Omega_ , will do as you’re told.”

Crowley’s breathing increases and his scent kindles with his arousal. Resin and sap mix with the pine. Aziraphale is no better. Pears and Port mingle.

“I can be good,” Crowley promises, shifting so that his own erection rubs on the bed beneath him.

Aziraphale considers this then carefully slides his legs away from Crowley’s sides. His hands slide up the battered chest, feeling the poor quality muslin of his nightshirt bunch under his fingers. He makes a decision.

“Does it hurt to lay flat on your back? Answer me truthfully.”

“It won’t be comfortable, but I can.”

“If you’re lying to me, I will be able to tell and we’ll stop.”

Crowley slides off him and shoves the pillows out of the way to lay flat on the mattress. “I’m not lying to you. This is how I slept last night.”

Aziraphale considers him. “Very well. You’ll stay dressed like that. You’ll stay still. If you move, if this hurts, then it’s done. I’ll stop.”

“Sure,” Crowley answers, breathlessly.

“Do I have your word?” Aziraphale asks, shifting so Crowley can better see his face.

“Promise that I’ll be good, angel,” Crowley promises with a huffy laugh. “I really can be good.”

Aziraphale arranges the items on the bed to one side then pushes the duvet clear of the bed. He kneels at Crowley’s feet.

“My dear, you are very, very good. You’re my treasured mate and Omega,” he says as he scoots upward, and pushes Crowley’s nightshirt up over his bandage.

Crowley’s cock stands red and hard, jutting up from a patch of red pubic hair. “You are also beautiful, my dear.”

Aziraphale leans in and inhales deeply. Crowley’s cedar scent radiates from his pelvic region. Unable to wait, he leans forward and laps at the end of Crowley’s erection with kitten licks. Crowley yelps and his hips surge from the bed.

“Darling, you must hold still,” he reminds his mate, harshly.

When he looks up, however, his tone gentles. Crowley’s eyes, both blacked and one swollen nearly shut, are wide. His mouth hangs open in surprise. Aziraphale chuckles deeply.

“Oh, you’ve never had this before then?” he asks and traces the vein along the underside of his cock with his tongue.

“Never done anything before you,” Crowley admits with a moan.

Aziraphale stops, completely paralyzed. “You’ve never had a lover— _of course_ you haven’t. I am an imbecile.” Crowley is ready to retort, but Aziraphale speaks on. “I assumed from your bravado the other night.” As he considers Crowley’s actions and touches, however, they were clearly those of a timid and inexperienced virgin.

“You were beautiful, stretched out, touching yourself,” Crowley admits, breathlessly. “I had to get closer. _Had_ to see you.”

Aziraphale bends his head down again and kisses down the length of Crowley’s erection. The skin is smooth and hot under his mouth. Crowley gives the softest “oh” when Aziraphale changes tactics and swirls his tongue around the head of his cock.

“Would you like me to take you in my mouth, my darling?”

Crowley’s breathing increases and Aziraphale decides it’s unfair to taunt him. He slides his lips over his cock and holds him between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Crowley is keening and grabbing handfuls of the sheet under him. Aziraphale holds very still. This is going to be quick, that is evident. He braces himself with one hand and carefully brings the other under Crowley. He reaches under the Omega and works his finger between the clench of Crowley’s cheeks. Slick wets them and he hums in pleasure around Crowley’s cock.

It drags another high-pitched whine from Crowley. Aziraphale’s pointer finger finds his entrance and presses on the furrowed hole at the same moment that he ducks his head lower and sucks. Crowley howls, his back arching as he comes inside Aziraphale’s mouth. He slides and takes him deep into his mouth again, letting his tongue swipe all along his softening member.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begs, “Aziraphale. _Angel_.”

Aziraphale pulls back and sits up on his elbows. “Yes, my love?”

Tears run out of Crowley’s eyes and Aziraphale hurries up the bed to touch his chin. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no, I need something. I just, I need… _something_ ,” Crowley repeats in confusion, as he tosses his head. “You, _Alpha_. I need you.”

“Crowley,” he says sharply and they lock eyes, clarity breaking through, “did I hurt you? Are you in pain?”

Crowley raises both hands with a wince to his face and hides them under his palms. He stays hidden there. Then without a word, he raises his legs, knees bent to his chest in a way that must hurt with his injuries. The moment he does, however, the deep, rich scent of his oil hits Aziraphale at once. He’s never been harder in his life. He can’t breathe. The Alpha inside him that has been raging and bucking in his mind all day breaks loose.

Aziraphale growls low and long before he slides back to the bottom of the bed and nibbles his way down the inside of Crowley’s thigh. Slick has worked its way across it and Aziraphale laves it from Crowley’s skin. Another growl rumbles free as he licks his lips.

“Oh, you are delicious, my dear boy,” he praises as he bites and sucks a bruise to the skin there.

Crowley just sighs, sounding as if he’s floating away. It spurs Aziraphale on. He grips Crowley’s cheeks and slides them apart. He noses at Crowley’s perineum and his lips ghost over his hole. The tip of his tongue swipes at the slick there and Crowley keens. Cedar explodes over Aziraphale’s tongue and he dives in for another taste. He licks Crowley’s rim, enjoying the flutter of the muscle and the flood of slick it brings. He seals his mouth over him and sucks. Crowley cries out and lets one leg drop over Aziraphale’s shoulder. His heel digs into his back.

Aziraphale sets to his task, lapping at the Omega until his cries are increasing in frequency and octave. Then, with a wicked smirk, Aziraphale spears his tongue into his mate. He feels Crowley’s body writhe and slick gushes over his chin. He pulls back then fucks him again and again on his tongue. Crowley is shaking and crying out a steam of words.

“Aziraphale, angel, oh my god, I love you, oh Alpha, I need you,” he moans, shivering and pressing his heel down with every fuck of Aziraphale’s tongue.

It makes him slow and pull back, “Do you like that, my Omega?”

Crowley’s bruised face is flushed and his lip bitten red, but he nods slowly, overwhelmed. He pants as Aziraphale helps lower his leg from over his shoulder and back to the bed. He guides Crowley’s other leg around his hip and slides forward, closer to his mate.

“Do you want me to continue?”

“No,” Crowley answers and it honestly surprises Aziraphale.

“You didn’t like it then?”

“I did, but I want you, love. Please, _fuck me already_ , Aziraphale.”

Instantly, he bends down and braces his hand over Crowley’s shoulder. He brushes their noses together.

“Not tonight. Tomorrow night, my dear. It’ll be all the sweeter to wait until then.”

Crowley shakes his head frantically. “I need you. I feel like… I’m incomplete. I need you in me.”

And here’s the danger.

Crowley is feeling the pull of their bond as only Omegas can. Stories of Omegas with strange illnesses or heartbreak when bonds are incomplete swirl around his head. If he denies his mate, then he might hurt him. If he doesn’t deny him, he is opening him up to ridicule.

Their friends and families clearly knew how tight their bond was even without sex. They should have intervened on Crowley’s behalf and chaperoned them, yet here they are for a second night left to their own devices. As a result, their beings weave together with tighter and tighter laces. He sweeps his hand across Crowley’s hair.

Lucifer thought to use their beautiful love to get money. Instead, he forced Crowley’s secondary gender to surface. It happens when people are in frightening situations. Omegas can go into spontaneous heats or miscarry. Their scent oil and slick increase in production. Similarly, Alphas can go into rut or extreme aggression. It makes sense now, why he feels this duality. Upon seeing his mate in danger and hurt, Aziraphale’s Alpha nature has reared up.

With sudden clarity, Aziraphale considered that Crowley is acting almost as if he’s in heat. It makes sense. He’s considered his actions today similar to his ruts. Their bodies may not have the same physical traits, but their inner Alpha and Omega are ruling their emotions and impulse control.

“Crowley, think carefully,” he says, trying for level conversation. “We agreed that I was not taking you until our wedding night. Do you remember that?”

Crowley keens and reaches behind himself and fingers his own hole. “Yep,” he agrees, emphasizing the last letter.

Aziraphale grasps Crowley’s wrist and holds him still. “Crowley,” he says seriously, “I need to know. Are you going into heat?”

Crowley’s arm drops onto the bed and his nightshirt rucks up to show the bandage underneath.

“No, it’s not like that. It’s not that I just need something in me, fucking me. I need you. I need _you_ closer, I can’t get close enough to you.”

Aziraphale draws his fingers through Crowley’s hair and leans down to kiss him. Crowley groans and laps at his mouth.

“You taste like a pine tree,” he moans before kissing Aziraphale again.

They kiss and Crowley becomes nearly frantic again. He shifts closer and closer, wedging his body under Aziraphale’s.

“Shh, my darling boy. I’m going to take care of you, my dear. I’m going to take such good care of you,” he whispers, before deciding to try his options while keeping his promises to his mate.

He lifts Crowley’s right leg and rolls him carefully onto his left side. He slides in behind him and presses his pelvis against Crowley’s ass. Crowley sighs with delight and relaxes back into Aziraphale. His erection is trapped between them and he can’t help but rock his hips forward into his Omega’s firm buttock.

“Mmm, that’s nice, angel,” Crowley moans then flinches when he moves his bruised hip.

“Hold still, my treasure. I’ll do the work.”

It’s too late though, the tiny change in their positions makes Crowley’s slick pool on his lower cheek and it coats his cleft. Aziraphale's tiny wriggle makes his cock slide smoothly over the skin. It launches fireworks behind the Alpha’s eyes, but it must be tenfold for Crowley because he grabs his hand desperately.

“Angel,” Crowley groans. “In me, please.”

Aziraphale refuses to be rushed. He will exhaust this option first. He settles his cock between those creamy cheeks and thrusts against the channel they make in even, consistent movements. He groans, low and long with each slide of skin against his cock. Crowley is whimpering and rocking his hips back while trying to hide it. Aziraphale shuffles closer and the rolls of his hips are aborted and short. Crowley shivers and pushes back.

“More,” he wails.

Then Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and presses it to his heart. It’s thundering at an insane speed. “Aziraphale, _please_. Need you in me.”

This is past dangerous. Crowley will need to be taken or he could have a heart attack. There is really no option left. Decisively, he pulls his hand away and rolls them both over until Crowley is on his stomach. He grabs pillows and arranges them under his mate. The angle is similar to the way he held Crowley on his chest earlier.

Crowley is pliant, but shivering with need. He’s like an addict in need of a hit. Aziraphale pushes his nightshirt up to find the skin on his back to kiss, above the bruises and bandage. He brushes his hands down Crowley’s buttock and spreads them again. The Alpha dips his face and tongues at the slick hole. It’s loose and dripping wet. Crowley cries out and pushes back at Aziraphale’s mouth. Willingly, Aziraphale gives into his wants and presses back inside, licking around his hot channel. Slick bursts over his lips in a gush.

“So ready for me,” Aziraphale whispers praise against his opening.

He tests his theory and two fingers slip past Crowley’s ring of muscle without resistance. He can’t help himself. He moans at the sight of his fingers disappearing inside his lover’s body.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley begs.

His voice is nearly void of humor and even sexual drive. It’s nearly desperation. Aziraphale pushes Crowley’s knees apart and settles between them.

“My love,” he whispers, carefully lining up behind him and pushing his cock into Crowley, “I’m here.”

Crowley is meant to be reclining on his stomach, to reduce the strain on his injuries. The moment that Aziraphale breeches him, however, he raises up and presses his back to his mate’s chest.

“Please, please, _Alpha_.”

And that’s the magic word. Aziraphale leans over him, pushing his chest flat onto the pillows, and begins the work his hips in deep, rhythmic thrusts. It’s unlike anything he’s ever done before. No lover, even another Omega, has felt this right before. With every thrust, Crowley cries out and his body opens to Aziraphale. He’s tight and hot, but welcoming. Aziraphale braces one hand on the bed beside Crowley’s ribs and grabs the side of Crowley’s nightshirt and pulls it away from his neck with the other. He pants and kisses his shoulder with each thrust.

Crowley matches him for every thrust, rocking back into him with a groan and cry. Slick drips out around his cock with each snap of his hips and his world spins with the scent of cedar and pears. It’s so good. He feels the knot at the base of his penis swelling and he shifts back on his knees. Crowley comes with him, bending his knees so that Aziraphale’s pelvis is right against his cheeks. When Aziraphale thrusts this time, the knot stretches at Crowley’s entrance and he throws back his head with a guttural cry.

Aziraphale lets go of his nightshirt to wrap his fingers around Crowley’s hardened cock. The Omega gasps and his cock jumps in the Alpha’s hand. Emboldened, he thrusts forward just as Crowley shoves back. The knot catches.

The sensation is unlike anything Aziraphale has ever felt. His brain goes offline for a moment, then Crowley’s muscles squeeze and Aziraphale’s coming. He strokes Crowley through this, but the Omega is crying desperately and pitching backward in tiny movements, trying to take Aziraphale deeper inside him. Aziraphale anticipates his next hitch backward. He slams his weight forward, shoving his knot deeper, just as he strokes Crowley. The Omega’s back arches and he gives a nearly-soundless gasp that becomes a moan. Moments later, he is coming all over Aziraphale’s hand. He collapses onto the pillows with his mate against his back.

Aziraphale rolls them onto their sides and adjusts Crowley’s right leg so it lays overtop his own, then wraps his arms around Crowley’s chest. He pulls him back against him and kisses all along his neck. Crowley sighs, dreamily.

The knot feels alive between them and he can feel it scorching inside Crowley. Every few moments, his cock twitches. Seconds later, he moans as another smaller orgasm takes him and the knot swells slightly. Each time, it goes slightly larger and each time Crowley gives a shivery moan as if riding out an aftershock of his orgasm.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to claim you, Omega mine,” Aziraphale promises, kissing his jaw and ears. “Oh, my darling, you feel so good. How I love you.”

Crowley wiggles his hips, successfully rubbing his arsecheeks against Aziraphale’s pelvis. They both hum with pleasure. Crowley lifts one of Aziraphale’s wrists to his mouth and sucks and kisses at his scent gland.

“I love you, angel,” he whispers as he drags his teeth over the gland.

The sensations combine to make the knot jump and Aziraphale grunts with a mixture of agony and pleasure. In return, Azriaphale lifts their arms back to his mouth and sucks a kiss onto Crowley’s scent gland. It's like something else lights inside him. He redoubles his efforts, sucking and killing until Crowley's back arches again and he pants.

“Aziraphale,” he moans, “touch me, please.”

The Alpha reels for a moment--Crowley is hard. He reaches down with the hand palm Crowley’s renewed erection. If this is what their first time is like, then their first heat or rut is going to be inconceivable, he thinks. While true that he’s never knotted an Omega, this is beyond any sex he’s ever had. Just the level of attraction and intensity between them is otherworldly. Now that they’re connected physically, their bond is stronger.

He circles his thumb around Crowley’s cock head and his Omega turns his face to trade heated kisses. His lip is split again. There is the taste of copper mixed with the tangy sweet pear and fresh-cut pine on his tongue. Crowley hitches his hips forward into Aziraphale’s grip, then moans at the sensation and grinds back onto Aziraphale’s knot.

The feeling sends another spark down his cock and he feels the knot tighten in a new way. He fucks forward in short abortive moments and begins to stroke Crowley’s erection in quick bursts.

“I think, _oh_ , my dear boy, yes,” he groans as Crowley meets each of his thrusts with one of his own.

The angle is wrong, so he rolls them back onto their knees. This time, he braces his hands on Crowley’s hips and raises him up off the bed. The knot keeps them from moving too far apart, but he’s suddenly hard again. All he wants is friction. Crowley is circling his hips and moaning wantonly while tugging his nightshirt away from his neck and shoulder.

Desperately, Aziraphale pushes closer, draping himself over Crowley’s back, and rutting into him.

“Yes, _Alpha_!”

His body clamps down around Aziraphale and he feels his hidden Alpha canines sharpen with an explosion of pear pheromones.

“I’m going to bite you,” he growls, with another tiny thrust. “I am going to mark my claim.”

“Thank someone, Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Do it,” Crowley replies, somehow relieved and petulant.

He tightens his hold on Crowley’s hips and kisses the juncture of Crowley's shoulder and neck.

“Ready, my Omega?” he asks but does not wait for a reply.

This is a claiming, a marking. A possessing, his inner Alpha agrees.

With the next circle of Crowley’s hips, Aziraphale thrusts forward with every bit of strength he has. The knot slips impossibly deeper into Crowley and the Omega cries out, a howl of pleasure. Aziraphale is not sure when he latches onto the skin under his mouth, as the sensations blend together as he comes in a new and explosive way. The world around him swings with pleasure. There are pears and cedar all around him, but blood on his tongue.

They fall to the bed, spent. Aziraphale carefully extracts his teeth and laps at the wound in his mate’s shoulder, instinctively. Then, he pulls Crowley to their recuperating position again, but the Omega is already asleep. The room is safe. It’s warm and quiet. Their nest is made and painted with the physical aspects of their love and commitment. It’s not the way he’d wanted to claim Crowley, but with their bodies tied together at his knot, he can’t find it in himself to care. With a sigh, Aziraphale pulls the covers over them and follows his Omega into dreams.

When he wakes, he’s softened and slipped free of his mate. The room is dark and the fire burned down to its coals. He kisses Crowley’s shoulder and feels the tender skin of his claim under his lips. It settles something deep and primal in him. His claimed mate is in his den in the nest they’d christened together. Satisfied down to his very soul, he rolls out of the bed and looks down at his body. There is come and slick dried all over his front, pelvis, and inside of his thighs. It itches.

Aziraphale takes up the fire poker and sets to work warming and lighting the room. Thus done, he steps into the frigid water, squats down, and scrubs at the mess on his body. At his splashes, Crowley blinks awake and winces as he sits up.

“Holy H. Christ,” he blasphemes as he looks down at the puddle forming under him. “How much did you pour in there?”

Aziraphale laughs, then climbs out of the tub, dripping onto the rub. “Come now, love, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He helps Crowley stand and shuck the nightshirt. Blood has stained the shoulder of the pajamas at his mating mark. Aziraphale lifts the garment to his mouth and licks at it, then blushes dramatically and tosses it away.

“Forgive me, my dear,” he mumbles.

Crowley doesn’t seem to mind because he steps closer and slides his claim mark close to Aziraphale’s mouth like a trade. With a pleased chuff, he leans down and seals his lips over the bite and sucks. Crowley’s knees weaken and Aziraphale has to grab him before he falls over.

“Right, let’s get you clean,” he directs before he can become distracted again.

Aziraphale frowns when he sees that come streaks the bottom edge of one of the bandages.

“It’s fine,” Crowley assures him, before stepping into the cold bathwater.

He hisses at the temperature, but kneels in it and splashes cupped-handfuls of water over his penis, between his arsecheeks, and down his legs.

“I’ve got a whole rundlet of jizz in me, angel,” he complains through chattering teeth. “A little on my bandage won’t bother me.”

His irritation would be amusing if not for the injuries that seem to have even worse color now. The firelight makes the blues and purples shine with sickening greens and yellows. Aziraphale hurries him from the bathtub and finds him a clean nightshirt. He dresses him in that and then wraps him in his own dressing gown.

“Sit down, darling,” he orders, helping Crowley sit in a wingback chair. “I’ll sort out the bedding.”

Unfortunately, there were some downfalls to living in a grand house. In this particular instance, accessing clean bed linens would require calling a housemaid who would immediately know what they’d been up to. Of course, with a sideways glance at Crowley’s shoulder, in the morning, everyone will know. Aziraphale studies their puddle of fluids and then glances at the bell.

“Might as well call them, angel,” Crowley says with a satisfied smile. “I yelled the house down. They already know what we’ve been up to.”

Aziraphale frowns, then pulls the rope.

“You might also want to put some clothes on. I like you naked, mind, but others may get upset.”

“You are being less than charming, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale huffs, then follows directions and dresses in clean trousers and a shirt.

He collects the items off the bed and rolls all the soiled linens up into a ball. Then, he removes the chair from under the doorknob and looks at the lock on the door. And it’s like he can’t take the last step. Opening the door could let anything happen. Who knows where the next danger lies? He returns the chair to under the knob quickly.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, confused.

Someone knocks on the door.

“I can’t let them in. I need you safe.”

Crowley stands, slowly, like an old man, and wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist from behind.

“You asked me to stay in the nest. I can’t do that because you took the bedding away,” he says calmly.

Aziraphale growls a warning to his mate for his cheek. “I need you safe.”

“Lord Aziraphale?” Quartermaster calls from the hall.

“Yes, er, hello!” Crowley replies, with false brightness. “Umm, look, see, we’re having some trouble with this whole situation. And, ehrm, Quartermaster, is it? We need the bath cleaned up and the bed changed and… Lord Aziraphale needs laundry done. His trousers smell like a horse.” He wrinkles his nose as he says this. “Only, well, his Alpha-ness is a bit.”

“On overdrive,” Aziraphale finishes, forcing his rational mind to take control.

“Would your lordships be comfortable in Lord Crowley’s room while we clean up? Then you could come back into your den after we’re finished?” the valet suggests.

It’s dangerous.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley and sees that he knows this too. There are social mores based on their strange dual instincts. First, Alphas in dens were like any beast in its cave. One should not venture into an Alpha’s den looking for a fair fight. It was theirs to protect and they would in any manner necessary. The law sided with the Alpha who defended their nest. It was their nature, they argued. What was another Alpha doing there in the first place?

Second, Alphas should never touch a mated pair’s bed. Many people took this as everyone avoiding a bonded pair’s bed, but in a world of servants completing household chores, this wasn’t possible. In time, the rule altered to simply Alphas. However, no matter the secondary gender, this could become a deadly infraction close to a heat or rut. Unfortunately, people usually died if the Omega was with child.

Third, secondary genders could fall back on their baser instincts in times of stress. Something that they themselves had experienced in the hours prior. Aziraphale had already been quick to lean into his Alpha traits. Who was to say how he would react to his valet or other people now that he’d claimed his mate?

Aziraphale thought about his valet. Quartermaster was a gelded Alpha. Gelding was a time-honored tradition for those in lower social classes. A few snips and the Alpha’s penis would never knot. The English were particularly good at forcing this practice upon people who did not want it. The Scots, the Irish, the Indians of the subcontinent, and assorted other indigenous peoples. They also encouraged Alpha servants to undergo the process. Gelding did not change brain chemistry or pheromones, so it was no guarantee of controlling those innate reactions.

The valet could enter their room without complaint.

Or he could also enter and be attacked by his employer.

“If you’d be so kind as to wait down the hall,” Aziraphale suggests, helpfully. “We’ll give it the old college try.”

Crowley stares at him. “What? The old college—seriously, angel. Never again.”

Aziraphale would tease him in return, but he’s too focused on his next moves. He counts the seconds in his head. All at once, Aziraphale grabs the sword from the bed, moves the chair, and unlocks the door. He swings Crowley up into his arms. His mate gives a vowel-free howl of surprise at the treatment but doesn’t fight. Aziraphale throws open the door and rockets into Crowley’s bedroom via the main hall.

He slams the door shut and slides the lock. Then lays his mate across his bed. The curtains are not the same kind and will not completely enclose the bed. Instead, Aziraphale places himself between the bed and the door, with his hand on his blade. The room is dark as the fire is out and the moon has not risen.

Aziraphale allows his eyes to adjust to the room. He listens. He can hear Crowley’s uneven breathing. All this movement has jostled his ribs and injuries. Aziraphale internally berates himself for allowing his lust to override his aim of caring for his lover. He has to let go of this line of the dialog then, as other sounds exist around them.

There are voices in their den. Furniture moves. Someone laughs. People enter the hallway, then return into their den. It’s a flurry of movement. His senses prickle with unease.

This was a stupid idea, he curses himself. He could have snuck out alone and stolen the bedding from Crowley’s room. No one would have needed to enter their den or touch their nest.

Crowley shifts on the bed but does not move from the spot he was placed. Someone in their den lifts something metal—it must be the bathtub. Then he hears people walking in the hall, walking quietly to each other. Time passes, perhaps half an hour, but nothing further comes from their den.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale opens the door to the hall and peeks out. No one is there. He enters their den, sword aloft, and takes it all in. The fire is refreshed and logs are piled next to it. A second picnic hamper has joined the first. The bedding is changed and the bathtub is removed. Candles are lit at both bedsides.

Aziraphale stops short of the bed. Lord Lucifer sits in the wing chair at the fireplace, dressed as if he’s going to his London club. In his lap is a shiny oak pistol box. His hands are neatly placed on the box, with his gun loose in the grip of his shooting hand.

“Hello, Lord Aziraphale. Finally finished viciously taking my brother’s flower, are we?”

He taps his pistol on the box and grins. Aziraphale examines the gun and determines that Lucifer’s gun has two shots—a pepperbox pistol. Unlike his father’s guns, these were no flintlocks that needed extra time for loading them. These came with a matchlock. If Lucifer fired the weapon, two bullets could fire.

In the War, Aziraphale had seen a number of these guns explode in people’s hands. It was the nature of the tool. Sometimes, it blew up. Soldiers lost fingers, hands, and eyes. Even with his sword, he is at a disadvantage.

“I’d hoped to just take the bride price and leave, as Mother intended. Why did you have to complicate everything?” He shakes his head. “I mean, the sword is a great example. Are you so duty-bound that you have that old kit?”

Lucifer waves the pistol and Aziraphale bends down slowly to set his sword on the rug. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and knows, with certainty, that Crowley has arrived. He holds out his hand, stopping his mate in the doorway. It’s not enough, Lucifer has already seen him.

“Good evening, darling,” he drawls to his youngest brother with angry, sarcastic words. “Come in! Come in!” he waves Crowley closer with the pistol. “I am so glad to hear your news—you’ve spread your legs like a cheap whore! And, this happy report comes right on the heels of Hastur’s elopement. It’s a glorious day for the Jayanthony’s, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aziraphale weighs his options. He could turn and shove Crowley into the hall. Lucifer would likely shoot him in the back at least once. However, his mate might escape. This is an unlikely course of events. He knows that his Omega has run from scuffles before, but this is his _nest._ Crowley feels the same draw that he himself does. Claiming took place here. He wants to protect it and his mate. Even from the corner of his eye, the Alpha can see how primed Crowley is to fight.

Better to try and back away, his rational mind suggests. He takes a step back. His inner Alpha roars angrily at the threat in his den and the thought of abandoning it to another. This was his den! His nest was mere feet away—he’d knotted and marked his mate in that nest. As far as his instinctual mind went, his actual physical abilities ignored, he’d bred his Omega there. This was a place to defend.

“You do look awful, Crowley. Nearly as bad as the time Mother had to take you and Ashtoreth in hand for that infraction at Lord Pestilence’s fete. Lord, the bruises you two sported!” he laughs as if telling a cute anecdote. “Blanc isn’t much better right now. She’ll wear a veil for a day or two and all will be well again. She’s filing for reconciliation, of course. No Omega can be without her mate, especially if she wants to keep her property!”

Aziraphale reaches back and palms Crowley’s hip, guiding him back a half step. Crowley lets Aziraphale back all the way into him, their body’s pressed together now. Later, Aziraphale will turn Lucifer’s words over in his mind and wonder at a society that will not give any legal ground to an abused partner. He’ll worry that science could find a way to break mating bonds in these situations, but with an Alpha-driven society, the interest is low. He’ll fret how long Blanc and others like her will be forced to suffer without systems in place to help them. Right now, however, he is only focused on keeping his mate safe.

Lucifer is waving his pistol as he continues to monologue like the villain he is. “And Mother is in ruin. Dagon might save the family with her match, but the rest of us have doomed the name. I, well,” he mimes swinging a walking stick. “That will certainly make the papers. And Hastur, obvious again. We’ll be gossip for months.

“But you, darling! You could have saved our family name!”

He lets the pistol box slide down his leg and onto the floor. “A fine match. Well, all right, an _acceptable_ match.” He grimaces at Aziraphale. “Unable to breed, so, honestly, a repulsive attempt at an Alpha.”

Crowley growls, low in his throat. It’s a quiet thing, but dangerous.

“I guess he could mark you—it’s a nice job on your throat. Yet, he’s holding onto you like he fucked you, so, I guess the reports were wrong and he _could_ do that part of the job. No earring though, so not exactly legal. Haven’t got the money for it, eh, _Captain_ Herald?” he stands and studies the paper-wrapped packages that contain Crowley’s many gifts.

“What’s this then? Wine, very nice. Good vintage. And here, oh, seed packets,” he lists as he opens each parcel.

Aziraphale takes another two steps backward, guiding Crowley toward the doorway. Crowley angles them so they will be in the hall in another few steps. Lucifer opens each package and tosses the goods around. The duck-engraved corkscrew clatters to the floor. The gardening gloves slide off the table. Then, he finds the jet-inlaid box and lifts it to the light. He snaps it open and examines the matching set of wedding jewelry. The ring and earring with its locking clasp and wrench sit in the velvet liner waiting for the following morning.

“Tiny little earring, Lord Aziraphale,” Lucifer tuts. “Couldn’t afford something larger? I suppose etched silver is nice.” He tucks the box into his trouser pocket.

“Crowley, this could have been the reckoning our family needed. But you wouldn’t let those better Alphas catch your eye though, would you? Wealthy old men! You could have taken it up the ass once or thrice, then they’d die! We could have had the fortune restored. But, no, had to stay in mourning. Couldn’t end it… until _this_ Southern Pansy turned up. Three days, Crowley, _three days_ and you’re in his bed.”

He opens the last bag, this one holding Aziraphale’s personal effects. Lucifer pushes the books aside and then finds the Common marriage license. He unfolds it and Aziraphale stops breathing.

“No waiting period, nicely done, Lord Aziraphale. I suppose you told the Bishop that my brother was already in ‘the family way’ to get this sort of expediency?”

For a moment, Aziraphale expects the man to toss the form into the fire. Instead, it joins the box in his pocket. Then he pokes in the picnic hamper and retrieves an apple.

“Anyway, enough of the chatter. Let’s get downstairs.”

Lucifer waves the pistol at them and Aziraphale guides them out into the hall, walking backward. Once there, he turns and puts himself between his mate and Lucifer. The other man does not care at all, just holds the gun on them and bites into the fruit in his hand.

Their party is dressed for dinner and linger around the saloon waiting to be called in. When they see Crowley and Aziraphale with Lucifer and the pistol, however, they panic.

“Lord Lucifer, what are you doing?”

“Good heavens, he has a pistol!”

Aziraphale keeps his hand protectively on Crowley’s hip and keeps him walking in front of him. He sees the way people’s eyes track over his mate’s bruises and settle on the claiming mark on his neck. Then those eyes jump back to the gun. It’s clear that many of these people cannot tell which of these is the most scandalous.

“Lady Michael!” Lucifer calls, “We will require you in the chapel!”

“Son, what are you doing?” Lady Burningstone asks, her voice sharp.

Lucifer sighs as if this is obvious. “Fixing this mess, Lady Mother.”

“This isn’t the way,” she answers, surprising Aziraphale.

“Mother, he’s claimed Crowley. Look at his neck!”

Lady Burningstone’s gaze does not leave Lucifer. “I suggested such a thing. As I encouraged _you_ to test your Omega. It’s an Alpha’s right.”

Lucifer shakes his head, “Which is why there is such gossip about our family. No matter, we shall remedy this at least—twofold!”

Gabriel and Anathema are trying to discretely advance on Lucifer, but he must see the movement. Lucifer raises his arm and presses his pistol to the back of Aziraphale’s head. They both stop.

“Right, so shall we repair to the chapel, Lady Michael?”

She nods, worriedly. “Please don’t hurt my brother or his mate.”

Lucifer’s face warps with a silly smirk, “I’m not going to harm our brothers! If I do that, this won’t work out, will it? It’ll just cause _more_ scandal!”

Crowley is taking quick, panicked breaths and holding his hand tight over Aziraphale’s on his hip. He’s looking only at the pistol against his Alpha’s head.

“Easy, my love.”

Crowley’s eyes cut to his own. He swallows, trying to calm himself, but he seems nearly beyond it. The pistol shoves into Aziraphale’s scalp and he walks forward to their family chapel.

“Lord Fellthrop, you need to join us,” Lucifer says. “Mother, would you like to see the festivities?”

Lady Burningstone and Gabriel apparently follow them, but Aziraphale cannot see. If the others come too, he’s also ignorant. He’s only focused on taking careful steps and keeping the gun trained on himself and not Crowley.

Their family chapel is a holdover from generations past. It’s smaller than other spaces in the house and only used for small events on holy days. Even so, it’s rarely used at all now. Their family usually walks to town to attend services there. Right now, it’s dark and Aziraphale cannot see before him.

Michael has one candle in her hand and she carefully lights the candelabra on the altar with a reverent nod. The chapel is high Anglican with nods to Catholicism, which their family strayed from with the Tudors. Crowley is not interested in a tour, however. He’s completely focused on escaping and that’s apparent. His swollen right eye can barely open enough for him to look around.

“All right, we’re here, now what,” Michael demands.

Lucifer keeps them moving right up to the steps to the dais. He looks around and then gives a delighted noise. “Look at that old-style Cuffing Stool!” He shoves the pistol into Aziraphale’s skull and pushes them toward it. “Go on, grab a seat, darling!”

Crowley looks at it in alarm then quickly kneels on it. Like many things in this chapel, the Cuffing Stool is a relic. Once there were de rigueur for marriages. Omegas were held down and forced to take the earring whether they wanted it or not. Now, they were archaic. It’s dark wooded with dusty, old kneeling cushions and a neck rest. These are arranged into three areas. One larger pillow is in the center, toward the base, then on either side of that, two elevated pillows sit above. Crowley kneels on the lowest cushion, his knees together. Aziraphale is forced onto the elevated cushions behind him. Crowley is boxed in between the high wood back and his mate.

“Go on, assume the position!” Lucifer yells, manically.

Trembling, Crowley stretches out his neck into the neck rest. He turns his head so that his right ear is exposed to the ceiling. He keeps his hands on the handholds meant for his spouse and Alpha, which allows Aziraphale to curls his palms protectively over the backs of his Omega’s hands.

“This isn’t how we need to do this,” Gabriel argues from behind them. “We don’t even have the license—“

“But we do!” Lucifer exclaims and pulls the paper from his pocket. “I had hoped to see my brother married in something other than his jim jams, but beggars can’t be choosers!”

He shoves the license at Michael and then waves his pistol in a circle, “Let’s get on with it!”

Michael’s voice shakes, “We are here to unite these two people—“

Lucifer groans dramatically and sits back onto the divider to the pew behind him. The old wood strains at his weight. “Can we just get to the stabbing bit? He’s already claimed.”

“I will not be rushed,” Michael says, trying to assert some control, but Lucifer pulls the pistol level with her face.

“Right,” she says, her voice small as she swallows in fear. She hands her brother the license and casts about for ink and quill pen. “Does anyone have—“

“Here,” Lady Burningstone answers her unspoken question.

She carries with her dark blue ink and a clean quill. She might disagree with _how_ this is being done, but she’s also willing to facilitate it now that the wedding is in motion. Michael sets the paper before them and Aziraphale takes the quill from Lady Burningstone. He dips it in the ink and quickly signs his name to the line labeled “Alpha”. He dips the quill pen again and offers it to Crowley.

His mate’s signature is wonky because he’s too afraid to lift his head from the sideways neck rest. Aziraphale squeezes his hand. This is not what Aziraphale wanted for them. He’d imagined going in the early dawn to pick wildflowers for Crowley’s posey. Yet here they are.

Lady Burningstone and Gabriel sign their names, as does Michael. Lucifer glares at Gabriel until he moves from the altar. Lady Burningstone stands next to her son. Bored, Lucifer yawns then tosses the jewelry box to Michael.

His sister opens it and gives an emotional smile at what she sees inside. “Aziraphale, these are lovely.” She doesn’t pause long, as she sees Lucifer waving his pistol again. “Brother mine, take the ring and place it on your mate’s finger. This is your promise to cherish him in this life and the next.”

As he pulls the silver ring from the box, Aziraphale feels some delight. There may not be any posey, but Crowley is _his_ to cherish. He lifts Crowley’s left hand and slides the wedding ring onto his finger. Crowley presses his back into Aziraphale’s chest as he does.

“I _will_ cherish you, my darling,” he promises.

Crowley is still nervous, but he smiles a little from his uncomfortable position. His neck is bent at a strange angle in the Cuffing Stool. Michael chances a glance back at Lucifer and continues, still worried.

“I need to get the needle box,” she says as she lifts a small wooden box from the altar.

Lucifer waves her on, looking bored. Michael prays over it before returning to the Cuffing Stool. Who knows when the device was last used. She opens it with a grimace, clearly worrying about the lack of ability to clean it before use. She extracts the gold needle kit. It’s covered in religious symbols, but Aziraphale’s eye lock on the Garden of Eden imagery at the top. Michael hands it to him.

“Brother mine, you’re going to place the tool around Crowley’s ear lobe and depress the plunger. Lord Crowley, this is going to hurt. I’m sorry I don’t have any ice,” she apologizes.

“Just do it,” Crowley says certainly.

“Right,” Michael says, clearing her throat as Aziraphale moves the tool into place. “Aziraphale, with this action, you promise to protect and care for him all the days of your life.”

“And I’ll do it with love,” Aziraphale can’t help but say.

Before Crowley can react to the sweet words, Aziraphale forces the plunger down. The needle pierces through Crowley’s earlobe. He swiftly retracts it and, with predatory quickness, latches his mouth instinctively around his mate’s ear. His tongue soothes the wound and Crowley grunts with a mix of pleasure and pain. Michael waits.

Aziraphale has attended weddings where this portion of the Omega claiming has taken a long time. He’d always been embarrassed for the Alpha then, but now that it’s his mate’s earlobe in his mouth, he savors the moment. He wraps his arms around Crowley and holds him close. Crowley begins to purr. Aziraphale sighs happily as he curls his tongue around the tender skin. The wound does not bleed long—like the nerve juncture at his shoulder, Crowley’s body has evolved for this purpose. With a last happy hum and wiggle, Aziraphale nibbles his mate’s swollen skin before releasing it.

Michael hands him the wedding earring and he holds it so Crowley can see the design in the candlelight. It’s not flashy or terribly large, but its artistry struck a chord with the Alpha. Elegant vines twine around it like a serpent. The leaves remind him of angel wings. The same imagery is depicted on Crowley’s wedding band.

“Aziraphale, you are binding yourself to your mate. You become one entity. You align and twine your life with your Omega’s. With this earring, you promise to act in the best interests of both lives you represent.”

Aziraphale slides the post of the earring through the new hole and Crowley’s lip twitches a little in pain. Michael hands Aziraphale the locking back. He slides the back on and presses it until it snaps into place. In the box is a small wrench that will unlock it, should it need to be cleaned. Some Alphas wore theirs on chains as a symbol of their guardianship. Michael finds it and hands it formally to Aziraphale.

“You are the representation of the Church and the power that comes with physical might. You hold sway over your Omega when no one else can. Care for him. Use the power you have over your mate to raise him up. Cherish him and respect him,” his sister says.

Aziraphale accepts the wrench and helps Crowley sit up. He’s dizzy from the day’s activities and the long period of time with his head pillowed at the angle. He sags against his Alpha.

“With the power given to me through the Church, I declare this Omega to be bound to this Alpha. You are wed. You may kiss your husband.”

Crowley turns his injured face to touch his lips to his mate’s. Aziraphale cups his jaw carefully with one hand and holds his Omega tightly to his chest. He kisses him slowly and sweetly. Crowley whines high in his throat and presses his body back against Aziraphale’s again. He breaks their kiss when he realizes people are hesitantly applauding.

He turns carefully to see Lucifer, still holding the loaded weapon. It’s pointed in their general direction now, hanging near his side. Anathema is behind him, standing in the aisle between the pews and Gabriel is with her.Both look ready to mount some sort of attack but are unsure how. Uriel, Blanc, and his mother the Dowager are against the back wall, shielded by the line of Alphas.

“Right, so it’s done,” Lucifer declares, offhandedly. “Now, let’s all review what happened so we’re on the same page.”

A shiver rolls through Crowley and Aziraphale has a flash of apprehension. This was never about getting them married—this was still about money.

“My poor little Omega brother was overpowered and taken by the Alpha, Lord Aziraphale! He was already bound in all but claim and earring! We had to force the former Captain to wed his claim!” he dramatically recites, waving his hand and the pistol all-around at the collected group.

Aziraphale holds Crowley closer to him, even as his war wound twinges from a long time spent kneeling. The lie that Lucifer spins will ruin him. He will be forced to forfeit his military pension. Without such, he will be unable to give Crowley the life he deserves.

“Of course, if,” Lucifer stresses this phrase, “a nominal sum—an annuity, perhaps?— could be arranged, I’m sure this dreadful offense can be forgotten.”

“Extortion again,” Anathema growls.

“Slander,” Gabriel corrects at the same level.

Crowley’s eyes are locked on his brother’s face. Shame wars with pain across his features. Aziraphale tries to redirect his gaze, but Crowley will not look his way. He holds himself as still as possible to avoid the pain in his ribs but is clearly embarrassed.

Lady Burningstone approaches the Cuffing Stool and offers her hand to Aziraphale. “We should reach an agreement on the figure.”

Aziraphale has had enough. He ignores her hand. He braces his arms on the wooden frame and stands, pulling Crowley up beside him. The movement jars the Omega and he grunts then holds his ribs. Aziraphale tucks him mate against him with an apologetic glance and faces off with Lucifer.

Lady Burningstone looks between the two Alphas and then holds her hand out to Crowley. “You should come here,” she says, trying to make her words sound less like an order.

Crowley’s body tenses as he disregards her words. It’s bold. An Omega who is willing to stand with his mate in light of a potential fight is uncommon. Crowley must feel this is dire. It spurns Aziraphale on.

“You have the audacity to say that?” Aziraphale asks with proper elocution. “You’ve beaten my mate. You’ve threatened our lives.”

“And you’ll what?” Lucifer asks, mockingly. “You’ve never killed anyone.”

“You think the war I was in was just a few hands of Canasta?” Aziraphale sneers.

Lucifer raises his weapon and strides forward threateningly. “I will—“

But Aziraphale and the others never learn what Lord Lucifer is threatening. Crowley moves as fast as a cobra and snatches the candelabra from the altar. He swings it, lit candles and all, at his brother. Lucifer jumps away. Crowley’s momentum carries him around and he cries out in pain as his ribs seize. He bends at the middle, covering his torso with his arm. Aziraphale sees Lucifer’s finger move and he shoves his mate down and away.

Lucifer pulls the trigger and the pistol explodes in his hand. Like all the times that Aziraphale has seen the same action in the field, his reaction to duck or look away is too slow. There is a flash of light and noise. Aziraphale feels the rain of hot wood and metal pelt his face. People scream. Aziraphale falls to the floor. His head strikes the wooden edge on the Cuffing Stool.

Then Crowley is overtop him, throwing his injured body over his mate’s. His panicked face is the last thing that Aziraphale sees before darkness engulfs him.


	9. Chapter 9

The word “estrous” was derived from a Greek word that meant “frenzy”, “panic”, or “madness”. For the Omega, estrous, or heats, were a week of living those emotions. Gone was rational thought. Autonomy left too. Only hunger and need remained and it warred within the body. Whittled down to base desires, the Omega could be hysterical, clingy, and amorous.

Fascinated by this change from lucid to primitive thought, society ate up novels and newspapers whose found-less claims convinced people of old wives tales. Some said that the moon controlled these sudden frenzies. Others that Omegas could emotionally compromise each other and align their heats just from living in close proximity. Worse, research to combat such thinking was limited.

Some in the medical field knew the wide strokes of things. For one, they knew that the primary gendered female’s pregnancy used a different sort of womb and cycle than the Omega’s. It ran its cycle about once a month. On the other hand, an Omega’s body required time to slowly transition for hosting such a possibility. Pregnancy was possible, not less frequently.

Additional science reported that most Omegas began their heats at puberty and reentered heat once every two years. Beyond that, they did not spend much time on such studies. Society knew that Omegas were lesser beings, even if they never said so. Spending great deals of time researching their bodies was redundant.

With so little information and so little interest from society, most Alphas were blindsided by Omega’s estrous. Heats happened, as far as they were concerned, like mystical events or ellipses. They happened, but who could tell when? After all, there was no calendar to their own sexual needs. Their ruts could be brought on by the seasons, the tides, or even the scent of a pre-estrous Omega on the street.

In fact, Alphas’ ruts were more frequent than they were long. A young, healthy, unmated Alpha might have four to six ruts in a year. It was a dirty business, but quick. They tended to last twelve or twenty-four hours at the most. They did have nasty habits of bringing about repercussions, of course, as insatiable sexual hunger and uncontrollable bouts of testosterone are want to do. Few Alphas thought about how estrous might be any different.

Society kept them in the dark of course. Estrous was not discussed in polite company. “The Lord Omega has the vapors,” they might say. Or perhaps they might apologize for the immediate need to “visit a sick aunt”. It was not further explored.

Even if a group of Omegas was discussing the more graphic needs of their secondary natures, using carefully chosen code, no doubt, they’d avoid the unpleasant parts. They’d never mention the mind-addling sexual haze or inner gaping hunger. They’d ignore how unmated Alphas—be they family or lower social classes—driven by their own sudden madness, might claim an Omega if not chaperoned. They avoid discussing how these cycles changed their bodies and their ability to consent. If presented with the need to see a doctor, their bodies were usually “examined” through their shifts. Since their health was nearly taboo, cycle frequencies or variances thereof were not compared.

Crowley, for instance, had no idea if having a heat about once every second year was something special to him and his sister, or fairly common. Ashtoreth’s became less frequent as they aged but more violent. Crowley’s dwindled in days some cycles, then raged for nearly two weeks others.

It was hell the way his body craved to tighten around something that opened him up past his limits. No amount of touching or fucking himself on a phallus ever truly satisfied him for long—it just tamed the desire. He ran hot and then cold like a fever. His body ached. His stomach rebelled against food or water. It wanted a claim. It wanted a knot.

When Aziraphale takes him to bed for the first time, his hunger is nothing like this. Crowley is vulnerable, he knows that. Lucifer’s words and actions have worn him down. Physically he’s hurting—every breath twinges with pain. His face feels swollen and achy. Even kissing his lover is uncomfortable.

But his body craves.

It wants to be known and marked. No heat has ever felt so desperate or dangerous.

Unlike estrous, his body won’t be satisfied with a climax, even temporarily. The fever rolls over him in waves with every kiss. Aziraphale tries to dampen his need, but every swipe of his tongue makes the need grow instead of reducing. His heart thunders until it hurts. He wants Aziraphale. It’s unlike any sensation he can name. He is unfulfilled.

“In me, please,” he begs until, at last convinced that his absence is causing Crowley harm, Aziraphale takes him.

Their coupling, Aziraphale’s knot, and his own claiming torch through him like harmonies of a sonata. He’s never felt more alive, freer, more himself. He is Aziraphale’s. His mate has claimed him and filled him. The haze of pain recedes.

Hours later, standing before the altar in Aziraphale’s family chapel, pain seems to be all he can feel through his panic. He could list his aches: face, back, ribs all throb with his movements, his neck smarts from the bite, his arse hurts from the knot, and his ear stings from the piercing. This list, however, is nothing to the gnawing spasm of panic and pain that latches onto him when Lucifer’s pistol discharges.

Crowley has been around guns. Hunting is a sport for the gentry, and while he’s never shot himself, he knows the report of the rifle. Pistols, however, are new to him. He can blame this inexperience on his assumptions when it explodes. His mind is crowded with sensation: heat, fire, gun smoke, and gunpowder. The only thing that overrides this is Aziraphale’s safety. As far as he knows, his new husband has just been shot.

He throws himself over Aziraphale, but it’s too little too late. People are yelling. Over the screams, Crowley tries to make himself a shield once again. Aziraphale is still, his face vacant.

“No, no, no, angel. Angel, where are you? Don’t leave me! I can’t find you!” he rages, unable to control the swing of his emotions.

Is he angry? Frightened? Yes. Yes to it all, so when he pulls Aziraphale into his arms and helps him sit up, it’s all he can hinge his reactions on.

“Bastard!” he screams at his brother. His mother is kneeling beside Lucifer, so he screams at her too, “All of you!”

His body screams at him in pain when he stands. He pulls Aziraphale’s body up. He’s limp, but Crowley cannot focus on that. He must get away. He can defend them from the den. He must get them back to their nest. It’s instinctual, really. All those many years of running and hiding from Alpha’s bearing their teeth, he had nowhere to escape to. He’d known, innately, that he wanted to go to his nest, but he hadn’t had one. Now, it’s a homing beacon.

He slings Aziraphale’s arms over his shoulders so his slack hands dangle across his chest. His Alpha’s chest is to his back and his body squeezes, already preparing to tighten around his mate’s knot once again. He growls, low in his throat, and shuffles Aziraphale’s weight. He wraps his hands, as best he can, around his mate’s waist and stumbles for the door.

All around him, members of their party run. Some toward Lucifer with medical supplies, some to the fire buckets, and others away from the chaos. Even those who had not previously been in the chapel arrive. Servants race past him. Crowley pays none of them any mind. He staggers under his injuries and Aziraphale’s weight, but will not stop. His destination is in mind and he will make it.

Lady Device meets him at the bottom of the grand staircase.

“ _Crowley_!” she yells, directly into his face.

He gets the impression that she’s been hailing him for some time.

“You need to set him down. We can help—“

Crowley can do nothing but snarl at her. His teeth feel sharper. His eyes blaze. Anathema backs away as if she’s seen a demon.

“We’ll call the doctor—“

He ignores her and takes the first three steps with a wince.

“Let me help you—“ she tries again, coming closer.

She has to jump away when he snaps at her. The extra twist makes him stagger again, but he will not stop. Anathema stays back and watches him go. The stairs are a challenge and sweat beats his forehead. Aziraphale mumbles something against his shoulder blade.

“Almost there, angel,” he coaxes as if Aziraphale were carrying him instead.

They climb and climb and climb. Crowley’s vision dances with spots and his ribs burn. When they, at last, reach the top step, Aziraphale groans.

“Waking up then?” Crowley asks, panting through gritted teeth.

The door to their den is open and Crowley powers through the last few meters with speed. He collapses onto the mattress and rolls Aziraphale off. His mate flops and slides down the side of the bed.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Crowley pants, grabbing him under the arms and grunting.

He climbs onto the bed himself and pulls with a cry of pain. Aziraphale is mostly on the mattress now, but Crowley collapses, shivering and breathless. The bandages around his chest do nothing to ease the pain. He forces himself to take tiny inhales and hold very still. Through sheer obstinance, he pulls himself upright once more and closes the door to the room. Once locked, Crowley staggers back to their nest and swoons with pain. He doesn’t remember getting onto the bed, but he awakes from his faint on it.

Aziraphale is as he left him, arms akimbo on the bed. Crowley crawls over him and presses his hands to Aziraphale’s chest. There are slices in the fabric of his fine, white shirt, charred black on some edges. Crowley pulls the garment off his mate and tosses it away to see the damage. Aziraphale is alive, somehow, and Crowley curses himself for passing out without doctoring the bullet hole.

Only, as he hunts for it, he cannot find it. He finds the little nicks and cuts from the metal fragments. He sees the burn marks on Aziraphale’s hands and the missing hair that the fire singed. There is no entry wound.

“Oh thank… somebody,” he finally whispers, then falls, onto his mate’s chest in an exhausted slumber.

He wakes later as Aziraphale shifts him up the bed. The Alpha’s face is lined.

“Crowley, oh my dear, I was terribly worried,” he laments, cupping Crowley’s cheek.

“It’s all right, angel.”

He reaches up with a wince and touches the hair at Aziraphale’s temple where the curls are burnt away. Tears fill his eyes.

“Stuff happened. I thought I’d lost my best friend,” he admits, his voice breaking.

Aziraphale touches his lower lip and a sound of pain escapes him. He looks down at his palms.

“Stay here, my love.”

There is no Alpha demand in it, just that of a friend encouraging rest. Aziraphale slips of the bed and rubs at the back of his head.

“Well that’s going to be a goose egg,” he admits with another wrinkled nose at its tenderness.

“Stop touching it, then.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley an exasperated look and goes to the washbasin. He pours cool water from the drinking pitcher into it and lowers his hands into the water. He sighs with relief.

“I do appreciate your quick thinking, my dear. Right before, I had this terrible thought; that if you hadn’t come up with something, I was never going to speak to you again.”

Crowley sags against his pillows. “You were going to charge him.”

“I saw no other option.”

Aziraphale swirls his hands in the basin and Crowley listens to the water lap at the sides of the bowl. There was another option: to pay the money. Guns and explosions aside, he knew his family would never rest. They would spend more effort in getting the money from Aziraphale than ever would have used if they’d just sought out a legitimate business transaction.

“I could… get a job? I could pay them that way,” Crowley offers hesitantly.

Aziraphale turns sharply, his face displeased.

“Crowley, you are a gentleman. Until my brother’s child is born—and born an Alpha—I am Earl of Fellthrop. No spouse of mine needs an occupation; we will live in comfort. If you want one, of course, we will discuss that, but if you’re obtaining one to deal with your family’s debt, then, well,” he lets his words stop and he tends to his palm again. “I told you, my dear, not to fret about this.”

“And what has not ‘fretting’ gotten me? You were nearly shot! During our wedding!” Crowley yells, suddenly furious.

The emotion and air required for such an outburst leave him seeing stars and he once again falls back against the pillows and headboard.

“Yes, it was a shame wasn’t it? I had hoped for a wedding brunch. And cake. I do like cake,” his Alpha replies, dreamily. “A nice bunt cake, perhaps. Or a scrummy sponge. Angel food cake.”

Crowley can’t help but watch him and let his heart flutter away. His mate is the most ridiculous thing ever. Even his affection will not tamper his anger.

“We didn’t even get to celebrate. I thought Lucifer shot you.” He rubs his throat with his fingertips. “The Dame will find some way to ruin us.”

“I will not let that happen. I have already promised you, my love, we shall not be separated.”

Crowley’s fingers pause, “And how will you stop them if they kill you, angel?”

Aziraphale turns his back to his mate again. “It won’t come to that.”

“But it nearly did.”

“Forgive me, Crowley, but you’re being stubborn. Had I not hit my head, I wouldn’t have passed out.“

Crowley rolls away from him, showing the Alpha his back in his irritation. “And if the pistol hadn’t blown up, angel? Were you going to dodge out of the way of the bullet?”

He’s still wearing Aziraphale’s dressing gown and with his change of position, it tightens around him uncomfortably. He unties the sash and wriggles free, trying not to jostle his chest and ribs.

“I will not pay them,” Aziraphale declares staunchly. “They do not deserve to be rewarded for their treatment of you and of our union. Simply threatening to separate us is reason enough to refuse to cower to their whims! But your brother has harmed you.”

At this, Aziraphale’s voice softens and the bed dips as he settles on it. Crowley does not look over his shoulder at his husband, even if he’d like to. He stares at the door.

“I know you’re frightened, my dear. He has broken all trust you had for him. I hold some blame for not being here to protect you. I also know that you hold some loyalty to them. They are your family, your side, so to speak.”

Crowley does roll over there, bruises and injuries be damned. “I don’t have a side anymore. Neither do you. We’re on our side, angel.”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully then brushes his thumb under Crowley’s injured eye. It’s swollen, but at least it mostly opens now.

“Then I propose we do not give into their foolish demands and allow the law to take its course,” he says as he rubs his fingertip at the swollen skin under Crowley’s eye.

“Will they though? They had an opportunity days ago—hell, _years_ ago. They’ve done nothing.”

Aziraphale sighs and his fingertips travel across Crowley’s bruised cheekbone to the swollen, red earlobe where his wedding earring now sits. Aziraphale traces the lobe, then around the shell of Crowley’s ear, then around the earring itself. To Crowley, it feels like pressure, but also a touch of pain. Simultaneously, with the other hand, Aziraphale ghosts his fingertips around his mating mark. The earring rotates in its new hole and Crowley associates the same feeling with how Aziraphale felt hours before, buried inside him. Combined with the touch to his claiming bite, Crowley is lost. His anger dissipates and his inner secondary gender shoots out demands.

With a keen, Crowley bears his throat and cants his hips up off the bed. His cock is instantly hard and he can feel the slide of slick between his cheeks.

“I’ll take care of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale promises, but his voice turns gravely as he notes the way the Omega is reacting. “Oh, my dear, is there something you need?”

He twists the earring in its piercing again and lightly presses two fingers against the tender skin at his claiming mark. Crowley cries out again, bucking his hips into the air again. He grabs the hem of his nightshirt and tugs it upward, desperately. He needs Aziraphale’s touch now.

Crowley knows that honeymoons often cause mini-heats for Omegas. Their bodies are just so filled with pheromones and hormone responses that their body reacts in kind. A heat can set off an Alpha’s rut. It’s no wonder so many children are begotten in the days following a wedding claiming. Crowley can feel his need gathering. He whines and squeezes, feeling the slick drip out of him. He’s already wet and loose.

“You haven’t claimed me, my dear,” Aziraphale reminds, his voice teasing but dripping with lust. “I’d like that if you’re amendable.”

“Yes,” Crowley hisses, the word expanding and drawing out. “Yes, angel.”

Crowley shifts, trying to remove the nightshirt without dislodging Aziraphale’s hands at his neck and ear. His husband gives a warm chuckle and sits up to give his mate room to strip. Crowley pauses, his arms jutting out from his sides with his hands clasps in fists, and looks at Aziraphale.

“Are your hands… I don’t want to hurt you, angel,” he stammers, glancing down at the Alpha’s reddened palms.

Aziraphale stands and unlaces his trousers. The slide down his thighs tantalizingly. Crowley’s eyes drink in the new expanse of skin. Now naked, he climbs back onto the bed and kneels next to his husband. He offers his palms to Crowley.

“What do you think? I believe they’re up to snuff,” he says without any irony.

“‘Up to snuff’? Who in the wider world would say ‘up to snuff’?” Crowley says, eyebrows raised.

He sits up and yanks his nightshirt off and tosses it away. Then he fumbles for the end of the bandage and tugs it free. It unspools around him and he uncoils it from around him. Aziraphale frowns.

“My dear,” his voice advises caution, “perhaps you should leave that on.”

Crowley’s voice is gruff when he replies, without his intention, “I wanna feel you.”

Aziraphale appears ready to argue, but, instead, helps Crowley unwind the cravat bandage. It falls to the floor with his nightshirt. Crowley slides down the bed so he’s lying flat. His cock juts out and it twitches in anticipation. Aziraphale takes him in, from head to toe. Crowley feels examined and he tosses his head, aiming for some sort of pose. His mate rumbles low in his chest, a growl meant just for him. Crowley’s pose morphs into something more natural as he exposes his throat. Aziraphale pounces. His mouth latches onto the claiming mark and sucks. Crowley gasps.

“Angel, that’s good,” he manages breathily.

Aziraphale growls again and presses the flat of his tongue against his claim. Crowley mews and trembles. This is another difference between this need and his heats: the enjoyment. His nerve endings all fire at once, which makes him feel like power sparks across his skin. During his heats, there was nowhere for that to go. With Aziraphale, the charge seems to start and end with his mate. It’s heady.

Aziraphale leans back with another lick and runs his palms down Crowley’s chest, touching the skin that the bandages hid. Crowley’s hands feel empty. He pushes up from the bed with a grunt of pain. Aziraphale’s brow crease.

“You need to take it easy—“

“Fuck that. Come here,” the Omega growls.

It’s like he can’t wait anymore. He shoves Aziraphale to the bed and covers his body with his own. They align in some ways. Their shins rub together as Crowley wiggles down his mate and for some reason that makes Aziraphale moan. Crowley laughs then begins to kiss his lover’s neck. The skin smells like gunpowder and it makes Crowley pause.

Aziraphale’s hands skim across his back, urging him on. Crowley pushes the scent memory behind him and raises his wrist to rub his scent oil on his husband. Cedar spills into the room and Aziraphale gives another deep growl.

Pleased, Crowley shifts to begin sucking kisses onto Aziraphale’s shoulders. As he does, their erections rub against one another and he sees stars.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in surprise.

Crowley rolls his hips and tries to match feeling again. Aziraphale reaches between them and loosely grips them both. Crowley’s hips buck in response. It’s delicious, but it’s not scratching that deep itch that Crowley feels. He wonders, momentarily, if that’s the way this will always be: only feeling satisfied with his mate deep-seated in him.

He sits up so his knees straddle Aziraphale’s hips. It wouldn’t be too bad to always need Aziraphale to fuck him, would it? He considers the logistics of this, then slides up so he’s hovering over his mate’s erection.

“Darling, not that I’m not excited about this premise,” Aziraphale begins, “but I am worried about your injuries.”

Slick gathers at the pet name and Crowley lowers himself so his mate can feel it on his own cock. Aziraphale groans when he does.

“Oh, my.”

“You do that to me,” Crowley admits, his voice low. “My ribs’ll be fine.”

He reaches down to find Aziraphale’s cock and guide it to his entrance. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut at the touch of Crowley’s hand and he groans again when his cock head presses against his mate.

Crowley’s legs are tired and instead of neatly lowering himself, he sort of drops down. Aziraphale is full sheathed in one moment and they’re both breathless. The Alpha’s hands flutter and grab onto Crowley’s hip blindly. His movement smears scent oil onto Crowley’s thighs. Pears fill the air. The scent flares as Crowley tries to get his legs to cooperate and lift him up again.

He’s loose and wet. Even so, having Aziraphale in him is like something slotting into place. Sliding up his husband’s erection feels like electricity centers inside him. It arcs and heats. Crowley throws back his head with a pleased sigh as he lowers himself again.

Aziraphale’s fingers graze his stomach, then brush up his torso with feather-like sweeps.

“Look at you,” he says, appraisingly. “So lovely, my treasure.”

Crowley can only hum and lift up onto his knees again. Then Aziraphale’s hand travels up to his claim mark and circles his thumb over the skin. Crowley can’t help the whine that escapes him. It’s a needy thing.When he lowers his body this time, Aziraphale plants his feet and tilts his hips up. With one thrust, he’s deep inside his mate again. The friction is delicious. Aziraphale slides out, resting against the bed again. Crowley moves downward again, only for Aziraphale to presses his thumb into his mating mark and fuck up into him again.

Crowley’s body tightens down and he whines. “Angel, more.”

Aziraphale rolls them over and plants his hands on the bed by Crowley’s head. Crowley hooks his ankles around his husband’s waist. Aziraphale pauses grabs a pillow, and shoves it under him.

“More, my love?”

“Yes,” he hisses, clasping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, smearing scent oil as he goes.

Aziraphale lifts him and shifts him lower on the bed. It makes Crowley gasp. Then he rolls his hips and slides into his mate in a smooth stroke. He slides out with the same easy glide.

“Like that?” he teases then licks around Crowley’s wedding earring.

The groan that slides out of him is long and drawn out like a hiss. He lets one hand from around Aziraphale’s neck and kneads the muscle where it meets his shoulder. He curls up and begins to kiss his neck. Crowley’s hand sweeps over his lover’s shoulder and down until he finds the thick bundle of nerves above his mate’s heart.

Aziraphale hums around Crowley’s earring, sucking his lobe into his mouth. His tongue works the back of the earring making it jiggle in Crowley’s new piercing. As his tongue licks, Aziraphale thrusts in slowly and Crowley can’t help but tighten his legs around his waist.

Crowley’s mouth follows his fingers, pulling his ear lobe free, and he mouths at Aziraphale’s chest. Just placing his mouth there makes Aziraphale fuck forward harder. It rattles the bed frame.

He speaks, rumbles really, with his mouth still latches onto Crowley’s earlobe, “Yes, my darling. Oh yes.”

Aziraphale’s hands work down Crowley’s body again, his husband’s fingers stroking his sides. One hand slides under his body and his fingers spread wide across the small of Crowley’s back. He is surprisingly strong. With one hand, he lifts Crowley’s lower half while he balances them on his other hand and his knees. Aziraphale rumbles a low, pleased growl as he thrusts in like this.

Crowley’s teeth graze the spot on his mate’s chest again. This is sublime. He’s suspended in bliss. Aziraphale’s thrusts light up a spot inside him that makes him pant against his mate’s pectoral.

“Angel,” he manages between each roll of Aziraphale’s hips. “Harder.”

He’d never considered himself to be one who would be so demanding in bed. Aziraphale, on the other hand, seems to relish it. He growls again and drives into Crowley ferociously. It makes Crowley try to arch up and coil around Aziraphale at the same time.

“Yes, angel, take me, I’m yours,” he pants as his husband’s pace takes on a frenzy.

“Touch yourself, my dear boy,” Aziraphale growls, his voice stuttering with the snap of his hips.

Their skin slaps and Crowley reaches between them to take himself in hand. His cock is hot and hard. It jumps when he touches it. He gasps and the hot air plus the proximity of his teeth to Azriaphale’s chest makes the Alpha moan.

“Is that good, my love?” he asks.

Crowley opens his mouth to reply and a purr startles out of him. It makes Aziraphale’s pace hitch, then renew with rigor.

“Yes, just like that, Crowley.”

Crowley feels the swelling of Aziraphale’s knot ramming against him and he keens. The sound wraps around his purr and makes Aziraphale’s cock surge inside him. Crowley tightens his fist and works himself faster. Aziraphale stretches forward, pressing more of his weight into the hand that presses the mattress. As he does, he pulls Crowley higher from the pillow. With the following thrust, Aziraphale slams against Crowley’s prostrate. It coincides with the swipe of his fist. The orgasm shoots out of him and, like a haze of innate bliss, Crowley bites down. Aziraphale yells and fucks forward. The knot slides into Crowley with the thrust and Crowley bites harder.

Aziraphale is coming with a deep and sobbing cry. His knees slide backward and they tumble onto the bed. Crowley sucks at Aziraphale’s pectoral, tasting the blood that wells there and feeling each pulse of his husband inside him. Aziraphale gives tiny, colored cries of surprise with each deposit he makes, like little orgasms pulled from him. Each time, the knot swells a bit and makes Crowley gasp.

Crowley wiggles into the bed and slowly pulls away from the bite. As he does, he meets Aziraphale’s eyes. He’s propped up on his one elbow. He rests his forehead against Crowley’s and sighs, blissfully, as he twitches again. Crowley’s breath hitches as the knot enlarges again and stretches him a little more.

Crowley lifts his chin and kisses his Alpha. “You’re mine now, Lord Aziraphale. Can’t run off to Ireland and seek your fortune,” he says playfully as the knot grows again.

Aziraphale’s hand that is trapped between the Omega and the bed slips down and cups Crowley’s bum. “And you, Lord Crowley, are mine.”

They kiss tenderly. The day is catching up to Crowley, however. “I almost lost you just as I got you,” he says, the humor dropping away. “I thought they’d stolen you from me.”

“Never,” Aziraphale promises. “You are tied to me,” he says without irony.

As if to prove it, Aziraphale reaches down and touches where they’re joined. He thumbs at Crowley’s stretched rim and the Omega whines with pleasure.

“That’s good, angel,” he moans.

“You are mine, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, his thumb tracing where the ridges of his hole are smoothed from his knot. “Heaven will fall before they take you from me.”

Aziraphale’s fingers disappear, then reappear tracing Crowley’s spent erection. He cups it and rubs his fingertip across his slit. “You are my wedded mate. You are claimed. You are treasured. I would cut my teeth on their throats if they tried to separate us.”

Crowley’s arms and legs feel like jelly with these faint touches. He shivers. Aziraphale stops to gasp as another orgasm twitches through him and the knot expands again. He kisses Crowley then, mingling their tongues. His kisses are sweet and passionate, without the fervor of those earlier.

Crowley kisses him and kisses him, feeling perfectly wrapped up in his scent. Cedar and pears are all around them. Crowley’s purr begins anew, low and scratchy, then reaching full power. Aziraphale kisses him again, his eyes are bright with joy.

“Are you happy, then, my dear?”

“Absurdly,” Crowley answers truthfully.

“Do you need a rest? I know this position doesn’t provide the best for napping, but—“

“‘Mnot really sleepy. I could just sit here and watch you?” Crowley replies and runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls.

The burnt ends tangle and he slows his hand to work through these carefully.

“If we weren’t so connected, I would get a book,” Aziraphale begins, but it makes panic riot in Crowley.

“Don’t leave!” he yells, surprising them both.

Something inside him though is spiraling, anxiety spiking at the thought of his Alpha abandoning him just then. His purr abruptly halts.

“I’m here! My darling, I’m right here,” Aziraphale reassures him, his eyes wide with worry. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley nods frantically, “Right, yeah. Attached and all, right.”

“We’ll stay here in the nest together. I’ve got you,” the Alpha continues, cupping Crowley’s cheek. “These past few days have been trying. We should just stay in the den.”

Crowley’s inner Omega protests. “In the nest. You and me. In the nest.”

Aziraphale seems to know what he’s battling, “Of course, my dear. In the nest.”

The knot has quit expanding, but it holds them together. It makes something needy in him surface. With tears pricking his eyes, he casts his head back onto the bed showing his mate his throat.

“Alpha, don’t leave me,” he whispers, unsure where the words are drawn from.

He is not this person. He is not clingy or desperate. At this moment, however, these feelings overpower him. Aziraphale noses at his throat then presses his wrist and scent gland to his left temple. The Alpha smears the scent oil down the side of Crowley’s jaw and onto his throat. Pears, like those drizzled with honey, overwhelm him. It’s soothing, but those tide of worries still beats at him.

Aziraphale must know it for he presses a kiss to his mating mark. “Hush, my Omega. We’re staying right here.”

His kiss gains teeth and he bites down, gently, more a nip than a bite, into the same nerves he marked hours before. The claim seals something inside him and he goes limp under Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Alpha,” he whispers, transported.

It encourages Aziraphale to bite harder. Somehow, it pushes Crowley over into ecstasy. It’s not like his claiming. This is no burst of passion and serotonin. This is a warm blanket of comfort. His mind quiets and his eyelids grow heavy without sleeping.

Crowley drifts. He can feel Aziraphale’s body heavy on his. It’s a welcome and grounding weight. He feels the knot that ties them together—wide and stretching, holding in his mate’s spend. He feels his own come smeared between their joined chests and his dried slick tacky on his thighs. Pain rolls over him absently. He knows his chest and face hurt. His spine and ribs do not appreciate this athletic sex. He waves the pain away and catalogs the pleasant burn of his new ear piercing.

Then, in his trance, he feels the sharp cut of Aziraphale’s teeth. They’ve broken the skin close to the previous bite, but not in the exact place. His tongue darts over the wound as he retracts his teeth. He sucks and Crowley groans, but it’s through a curtain. It’s drowsy and comforting.

When Aziraphale speaks to him, it’s through this mist, only his voice is warm and low. “Yes, my love, you’re doing so well.”

Aziraphale manipulates him and Crowley goes willingly. His Alpha will care for him. They roll onto their sides and Aziraphale pulls Crowley tight against his chest. The knot burns between them, hot and wide.

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s back and hair. He murmurs to him. “My darling Omega. What a treasure you are,” he praises with chuffs dancing between his words.

His mouth descends onto his claiming mark again and Crowley sighs with pleasure. Aziraphale sucks a bruise onto the bite before dragging his teeth across the puncture wounds. The knot, as if awoken anew, spasms and grows once more. Aziraphale growls a low, predatory rumble, and thrusts his hips in surprise. Crowley can only purr and blink heavy eyelids.

He tries to make his mouth move, but the words are hard to form around his injured jaw and contentment. “Alpha?”

“Omega,” Aziraphale answers, his mouth still kissing and sucking his mating mark. “You are my treasured mate, Crowley. You’re perfect.”

And that’s enough for Crowley. He drifts and purrs.Time passes and he feels Aziraphale begin to touch his face. “Crowley.”

It’s a call to come back to his body. He considers this, carefully as Aziraphale strokes his hair and kisses his cheeks.

“My darling,” he calls.

Crowley blinks slowly and inhales. His purr rolls out of his chest. Aziraphale is watching him, lovingly.

“There you are,” he says, happily.

Crowley takes stock and notes that the knot has receded and Aziraphale could slip free. Even so, he holds Crowley close, in the same position he’d held him while they were completely connected.

“I’d like to take care of you. Are you ready?”

Crowley nods dumbly. Aziraphale rolls them toward the edge of the mattress, then carefully stands and pulls himself out of Crowley’s body. It’s a relief and torture. Crowley immediately begins to tremble. He’s cold. Aziraphale moves quickly to grab a flannel and wet it. He cleans Crowley’s tights and between his cheeks. His spend slips out and Aziraphale seems transfixed as it does.

“My, that _is_ quite a lot,” he remarks, then wipes it clean.

Crowley snorts but doesn’t otherwise speak. He feels too raw and open for that yet. Aziraphale dips the cloth to rinse it then repeats a few more times. Once satisfied, he wipes Crowley’s chest then tucks him under the duvet.

He sets to wiping himself down, but keeps a running commentary, “I was thinking we have something to eat. It’s been a trying day and I always find that food helps to settle me. It’s not wedding brunch, of course, but no doubt Cook has added something tasty to the basket.”

He abandons the flannel and hunts through the picnic basket. “I do believe they thought we’d be in here for some time. No surprise, really, when Gabriel was first married we didn’t see hide or hair of them for nearly two weeks. The servants brought them their meals like this. Oh! How thoughtful! Scones!”

He collects a small hoard of food and hands it all to Crowley in the bed. “I might read to you? And perhaps you could enjoy some of your new things—I’m afraid your brother opened most of them.”

Aziraphale looks at the mess of brown packaging paper on the floor before selecting a book and two items for Crowley. Crowley watches all this, obsessively, as if any movement might drag Aziraphale away. He feels insane when he thinks about this, but the moment Aziraphale returns to the bedside something settles again.

Aziraphale manhandles Crowley again, plumping pillows and helping him sit against them.

“I’ll need to rewrap your ribs, I think,” he says apologetically.

Crowley takes a scone and breaks a bite off. “Probably. They’re tender.”

“Eat first,” Aziraphale agrees, pressing up against Crowley. “Then, perhaps you’d like to look at these.”

The book he lays in his lap is a botany text. Crowley smiles, surprised, and flips open the cover. Each plant is illustrated and then described in prose.

“Thank you, angel,” he says, pleased.

Aziraphale wiggles and takes a bite of scone. “It’s from the reading list. It goes with this,” he says and hands Crowley a letter.

The letter is addressed to Aziraphale, but he waves at his husband to open it. Crowley seal breaks easily and unfolds the letter.

_Lord Aziraphale,_

_It was lovely to see you yesterday. I do hope you’ll drop by and introduce your new husband soon. My mate is always after me to have my more interesting students over for dinner. Of course, your mate will not be my student exactly, but if his interest is as sincere as you say, then he will be a great addition to our academic setting._

_I’ve included the reading texts that I often teach from. Please know that no student would only read for botany. These discussions make a well-rounded academic or lawyer. I suppose as his situation is different, so his degree could be as well. Please ask him to write to me soon so that we may make arrangements._

_Mrs. Moonchild is eager to meet you and your new husband. Our youngest, Pepper, will be grateful for the acquaintance as well. She swears I only know old men. Congratulations again on your engagement._

_Sincerely,_

_Thomas Moonchild, Professor of Divinity_

Crowley stares at the paper and then rereads it. Sometimes the words warp on the page, but today that’s not the case.

“You spoke to a professor?” he asks slowly.

“At Oxford. Magdalen College, actually. His brother served with me in the war and we wrote to each other after his passing. He is very open to tutoring Omegas. He feels strongly that universities should not limit admission,” Aziraphale says, sliding an arm around Crowley and tugging him closer.

“He wants… you asked him to…” Crowley reads the letter again, then looks up into his husband’s face. “You’ll let me study?”

“My darling,” Aziraphale rumbles, his voice taking on a depth of feeling that sings to Crowley’s heart, “if it were in my power, I’d move us there so you could take classes as a fully enrolled student.”

Crowley holds the letter then flips it to view the list of texts Moonchild wants him to read. The first text, which is underlined, sits in Crowley’s lap.

“He’ll engage your discussions by letter, although, in light of his wife’s invitation, perhaps more could be done in person. It will be mostly self-study, my dear, but I hope—“

Crowley grabs his mate around the neck and hugs him tightly. “Thank you,” he whispers against Aziraphale’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, angel.”

Aziraphale kisses the top of his head. “My darling, I would give you the moon, were it in my power.”

Crowley carefully tucks the letter into the book and sets it on the bedside table. He takes a few more bites of his scone, but exhaustion is taking over. Aziraphale stands and lights the candle at the bedside. He banks the fire and slides the chair under the doorknob. He closes their bed curtains, then grabs another gift from the table. It’s the gardening gloves that Lucifer opened and threw onto the ground.

“There are seeds, too,” he says holding these out to Crowley. “Herbs and some flowers for you to begin with. I don’t actually know if you’ve gardened before.”

Crowley takes the gloves and rubs the leather between his fingers. “Thank you, angel. These are… too much.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale argues before he gives the bandage and nightshirt to Crowley. “A courting gift should be more than what is just required for life, but things that make you happy. I want you to be happy, Crowley.”

Crowley ducks his head as a sudden blush colors his cheeks. In light of their recent activities, this seems silly. Aziraphale kneels on the bed and wraps the bandage snugly around his chest once more. His nightshirt slides over his head and he sighs at the warmth. Aziraphale kisses his forehead then retrieves the sword from the floor and his own nightclothes.

He leaves the bed curtain at his side of the bed open, so the candlelight can brighten the inside of their nest. Aziraphale climbs in and winds his arms around Crowley. They wiggle and arrange themselves, finally with Crowley on his stomach, pillowed on Aziraphale’s middle.

“Are you sore down there, my love?” Aziraphale asks, worriedly. “I’ve never knotted before, a lover, I mean. I assume it would leave you sore and we’ve done it twice in a few hours now.”

Crowley sighs, pleased. “It’s good. It feels sore, yes, but I want it.”

They lapse into silence and Aziraphale slides on his reading spectacles and selects a book from the pile he brought to bed.

“I think it’ll be more than twice, you know,” Crowley comments. “Honeymoons cause mini-heats.”

  
Aziraphale looks at him over his glasses, “Are you feeling one coming on?”

Crowley considers this. “I’ve felt, not as if I’m in estrous, but something like it. Similar, but not at all.”

Aziraphale rubs his back gently. “My ruts control me and I’ve felt that emotional overload a few times. Tonight, when you were submitting, you went there?”

“No, that was… new.”

“Good new?”

“Very, in fact,” Crowley admits. When he speaks next, he feels shy, “Submitting you said? I’ve submitted to you a few times.”

“I’ve heard it called ‘feral space’ too, but it’s typical for the Omega in a bonded breeding pair. It means you feel safe with me and as my mate,” Aziraphale says, his voice mixed with chuffs of pleasure.

Crowley nuzzles against the underside of Aziraphale’s chin. “It’s true.” He kisses the skin there and Aziraphale’s growl rumbles against Crowley’s lips. “My heats aren’t enjoyable. This has been.”

“I intend to ensure it stays that way. If your heat comes on from our bonding, then, so be it. I would not be surprised if it did, in light of how worrying these past days have been,” Aziraphale continues, stroking his hand up into Crowley’s hair.

“You’d go into rut, too?”

Aziraphale kisses the top of his head and Crowley can’t help but nuzzle him in return. “Likely,” Aziraphale confirms. “We’re already closely tuned. I could smell you the moment you thought about making love again.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose at the words, but Aziraphale cannot see him. “May I ask about your… sterility?” he asks hesitantly.

Aziraphale stiffens, his hand is unmoving in Crowley’s tresses. “Of course, my dear,” he says, kindly.

Crowley shakes his head, “Nope, it bothers you. Forget I asked.”

“My dear, I don’t mind. I’m actually surprised you waited so long to ask,” Aziraphale says, aiming for an open tone.

His stiffness belays his real emotions. Crowley rubs his wrist scent glands across Aziraphale’s, letting their oils mingle.

“I just wanted to know the likelihood that we’ll be organizing a nursery in nine months. I can’t seem to get enough of you. It seems likely that you’d breed me, the knotting twice and all,” Crowley says as he spreads their combined scents up Aziraphale’s forearm.

“I hope this won’t upset you, my dear,” Aziraphale says gently, “but the chance of me fathering children is practically impossible. My body was greatly injured in an attack. I have scar tissue,” here he guides Crowley’s hands down to his testicles and directs his fingers to scars that hide among the texture there. “I can still bring you pleasure—“

“Angel, I have no complaints,” Crowley tries to backpedal, but Aziraphale carries on.

“But I will never be able to breed you, darling. I have always detested that term. You are no piece of livestock,” Aziraphale adds, with a wrinkled nose.

Crowley twines their fingers together and holds them against his chest. “Everything I learned about my heats, I learned from agriculture texts, so it’s not too far off.”

Aziraphale gapes. “You, I’m sorry, what?”

Crowley shrugs with one shoulder, “You know, sheep rearing books. It’s all my sister and I could get our hands on. Trust me, it caused all sorts of troubles and questions when we were young.”

Crowley expects him to laugh, but instead, Aziraphale seems sad. “I’m sorry that your family has put your needs so far below any reasonable expectation for a good person. Sheep rearing, indeed. Do you need some biology texts, now, my dear?”

Crowley sputters, “Well, I mean, maybe, if we’re going to be doing anything else with that feral bit. And I mean, if I was going to get pregnant then yes, but seems like I won’t need that.”

Aziraphale swallows, “Is that… does that disappoint you?”

Crowley lifts their joined hands to his lips and kisses Aziraphale’s knuckles, one after the other. “Babies are loud and messy,” he says slowly. “Honestly, I’ve never really thought of myself as a parent. I mean, it wasn’t ever going to happen for me, I was sure. I’m perfectly fine being your husband.”

“If that changes, we could arrange something,” Aziraphale says haltingly.

Crowley plants his hand on the bed to raise up and kiss his mate. “Nope. Only want you. Maybe we could get a dog or something.”

Aziraphale kisses him with the same gentleness. “Goldfish, perhaps.”

“Lady Dowling has a parrot,” Crowley offers. “Just like a kid, really. Messy, loud, and learns curse words before anything polite.”

Aziraphale kisses him again and Crowley settles down onto his chest once more. He’s worn out. Today has been an emotional day and this turn in their conversation has not helped.

“What are you reading?” he asks, with a yawn.

“The second volume of Robertson’s _History of Scotland_ , I’m afraid. No novels tonight.”

Crowley rests his head on the swell of Aziraphale’s belly and closes his eyes. “Read some, won’t you?”

Aziraphale slips on his glasses once more and strokes Crowley’s hair. With a clear voice, he begins to read, “Elizabeth’s eagerness to protect the conspirators rendered James more violent in his proceedings against them…”

His mate’s warm voice rolls over him and he drifts to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- I work with teenagers. It always horrifies me about what they believe about their bodies because no one is brave enough to educate them. Clearly, these kiddos have access to the internet but imagine a world where you would be seen as inferior (thus uneducated). I cannot imagine how frightening it must be to be a menstrating person in our world and now know what was happening to their body... I assume heats are similar.   
> \- FYI: rib injuries hurt. Do not attempt to carry anyone during recooperation.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEN IT ALL BECAME SMUT. I don't know people. It is what it is. You've been warned.

Aziraphale wakes as the curtains shift closed again. He blinks slowly and listens to Crowley putter around the room. He uses the chamber pot and tends to the fire. The sounds are new but comforting. Aziraphale hears the picnic hamper open. He lets his eyes fall closed and waits in the pleasant near-doze for his mate to return.

Only he doesn’t. Aziraphale abruptly sits up, fully awake and on alert, when he realizes. He’s out of the bed, sword in hand, moments later. Crowley sits, cross-legged, in front of the fire. His new botany text is open in his lap and he nibbles on a scone. His red hair lights like embers.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, worried when he sees the weapon.

With a visible shake, Aziraphale realigns himself. There is no danger here. His mate needed light to read. He sets his sword on the trunk and makes his way to Crowley’s side. He bends down and kisses him.

“Forgive me for startling you, my dear. I think I had a nightmare,” he says.

Crowley returns his kiss, “There has been something of a hellish dream about these past few days.”

Aziraphale straightens, “And some moments of bliss.”

Crowley grins and nods. “They’ve been memorable.”

Aziraphale find’s Crowley’s shawl and drops it around his shoulders before heading to the chamber pot himself.

“It seems that the room will need attending,” he admits when he finishes.

The pot will need to be emptied soon. He looked into the bowl of water, hoping to splash his face, and remembers dipping the dirty flannel in it. With second thoughts, he opens the curtains to the room instead. Fog lingers at the tree line, but the late summer day’s heat is already threatening. Inside, the old house is chilly. It’s blissful when the heat drives them in, but he worries after Crowley’s self-expressed “sickly” nature. With this in mind, Aziraphale extracts the duvet from the bed and brings it to the fireside.

“Shall we ring down after breakfast?” Crowley asks.

He holds out his half-eaten scone to his mate. The civil part of him wants to wave this away with a comment about allowing Crowley to eat his own food. The Alpha in him sees an Omega caring for his mate and rumbles with pleasure. He folds the duvet down and kneels on it.

This is the order of things, his instinctual mind supplies. He protects and provides. His Omega cares and gathers. Some part of him worries that the Omega has eaten first, but he clamps down on that as he takes the scone.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks as he takes a bite.

Crowley leans on him, “Am now.”

A pleased growl issues from his chest. It’s almost embarrassing, Aziraphale thinks, pulling the duvet around his husband. He’s never made these instinctual sounds this often in his life. Crowley brings it out of him.

He breaks the scone in half and gives one portion to his Omega. “Thank you.”

He reaches out and touches Crowley’s black eye. Thankfully, the swelling has receded enough this morning that he can open them both. He kisses Crowley’s nose.

With a stretch, he brings the hamper to them and lifts the lid. “Could I interest you in another? Some kippers, perhaps?”

He roots around and extracts the salted fish. They’re already in a ceramic dish, so he sets it close to the fire to warm.

“There are Bath buns too,” Aziraphale entices, waving the caraway seed-filed rolls at his mate.

“I wouldn’t turn down some grapes,” Crowley decides and Aziraphale quickly hands him a stem.

“I do wish they’d sent up some tea and a kettle.”

Crowley wraps his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and pops a grape into his mouth. “Tea does sound good. Should I ring for some?”

Aziraphale considers this. The prowling, wild part of him bares its teeth. “Best not.”

Crowley nods and offers his husband a grape. Aziraphale opens his mouth and his Omega’s fingers touch his bottom lip as he feeds him the fruit.

“I love you,” Crowley says then.

It’s heart-stopping, this admission. He’s said it before in the throes of passion, but this quiet intimacy and earnestness ring in Aziraphale’s heart. Crowley’s eyes cutaway and blush blooms on his cheeks. Aziraphale cups his jaw, letting his fingers glide into Crowley’s hair and his thumb stroke his cheek.

“Oh, my sweet darling. I love you.”

Crowley vibrates with pleasure, his eyes snapping to meet Aziraphale’s and his purr sounds. He leans over and kisses his husband then, still holding his face. Crowley drops his grapes and throws his arms around his mate’s neck. His kisses with bruising enthusiasm, nearly knocking Aziraphale backward in his hurry.

Aziraphale wraps his arm securely around his husband and pulls him closer. Crowley is licking at his mouth, nipping his lower lip, and stroking their tongues together.

“I want to make you feel good,” the Omega purrs as his hands squeeze at Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Lie down, angel.”

Crowley pushes his book away, tosses his shawl to the side, and spreads out the duvet. He guides Aziraphale to remove his nightshirt and lie on his stomach. The fire is nearly too hot on one side of his body, but his other side covets the heat. Then Crowley straddles him and rubs his palms down the plains of Aziraphale’s back. As he changes directions and rubs up again, his wrists smear oil on his skin. Memories of cedar forests spring up with the scent.

Once he reaches Aziraphale’s shoulders, Crowley begins to kneed and massage. He worries at tired muscles and digs his thumbs into tight shoulder blades. Aziraphale groans in pleasure. Immediately, Crowley kisses his spine.

“Feel good?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale affirms.

“You’ve cared for my pleasure so much in these past few days,” Crowley admits as he massages. “I wanted you to feel the same way.”

“Seeing you enjoy yourself is a pleasure, my dear.”

“Sure,” Crowley replies, clearly not agreeing, “but I want to do something just for you. Enjoy, angel.”

And he sets back to his task. Aziraphale shifts and brings his arms up to pillow his head. He sighs, blissfully as his husband works at his back. Occasionally, when these sounds of pleasure grow, Crowley will pause and worship his Alpha’s back with his mouth. Lines of kisses dot his spine. Teeth graze the point of his shoulder blade. Crowley dips his tongue into the valley of his love handles. It’s nearly prayer.

As his hands move closer to Aziraphale’s buttock, his body awakens in a new way. He shifts and rubs his hardening cock on the duvet discretely. The third time he does, however, Crowley chuckles.

“Shall we see to that then?” he teases.

“No, my dear boy, it’s nothing to worry yourself with.”

This makes Crowley freeze and Aziraphale immediately regrets his words. His mate, on the other hand, seems to decide to extract revenge instead of apologies. He slides down onto Aziraphale’s thighs and grasps a handful of each globe of Aziraphale’s buttock. He squeezes.

“Angel,” he moans, “you are beautiful.”

Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to each cheek. It’s too much. Aziraphale rolls over onto his back. Crowley gives a squeak of surprise but does not fall. Instead, he finds himself at eye level with Aziraphale’s erection. Simply seeing his husband’s mouth that closes to his cock brings him to full hardness.

Using one finger, Crowley touches Aziraphale. He drags that one pad down the vein on the underside of his cock. It’s like the first time he touched him, only he’s more assured now. It makes Aziraphale inhale sweetly.

“Darling, what would you like to do?” he asks.

Crowley takes Aziraphale in his hand and works his fist down Aziraphale’s shaft.

“Something new,” he decides thoughtfully.

Aziraphale thinks, but it’s more of a challenge with Crowley’s fist slowly working his cock.

“Could you lie on your side, my love?”

Crowley climbs off him and lies with his back to the fire. Their noses brush. Aziraphale stretches out and kisses him.

“Now, follow my lead, if you’d like,” he instructs, then rearranges himself so that he’s the opposite of Crowley.

Crowley’s breath accelerates when Aziraphale moves. He’s unclear if it’s because his mouth is close to his mate’s cock or the other way around. Aziraphale senses his husband’s confusion.

“We’re going to use our mouths,” he says, rubbing his nose along Crowley’s erection. “Shall I show you what I think you’ll like? It’s what I enjoy.”

Crowley makes a noise of agreement. “Ngk, right, yeah.”

Aziraphale kisses the end of Crowley’s cock and licks at the slit. His mate gasps and wiggles. Aziraphale pauses. In this stillness, Crowley immediately copies what was done to him. His movements are unsure, to begin with, but when his tongue touches Aziraphale’s slit he moans. Without any guide on his own body, he sucks Aziraphale’s cock head into his mouth.

It’s very unexpected and Aziraphale cannot control the buck of his hips. It forces himself deeper into that wet, hot suction and Crowley moans with pleasure.

Well. It appears that Crowley enjoys this.

With that thought, Aziraphale applies himself to pleasuring his partner. He licks and sucks. He palms Crowley’s testicles and rolls them as he slides his cock into his mouth. Crowley keens at the sensation, then sloppily sucks at Aziraphale’s erection.

Aziraphale swirls his tongue and Crowley tries to copy this, only he keeps opening his mouth to gasp. The vibrations of his moans are delicious on Aziraphale’s skin and he sinks lower on Crowley’s cock. Crowley suddenly slides off his husband and thrashes backward.

“Angel, you gotta stop. I’m going to come.”

Aziraphale can’t help himself. It didn’t take much at all. He sits back on his elbow and grins at his husband.

“Oh, is that so?”

He bullies Crowley into rolling onto his back but sitting up. Aziraphale arranges his husband as he wants him, knees bent, feet planted, arms behind him to hold him up. Then he rolls onto his stomach and swallows Crowley to the root.

Crowley surges upward, pressing his feet into the floor. “Angel!” he cries in a strangled voice.

This is divine, Aziraphale thinks and draws back off Crowley before diving down again. Crowley is puffing little cries and exhales. Aziraphale reaches up and spreads his fingers across Crowley’s stomach. The muscles there are tight and they tremble with each dip of Aziraphale’s head. He can smell pine suddenly and Aziraphale reaches back to find slick dripping out of his mate.

Just the knowledge that he did that to his husband makes him hump the duvet. He slides backward and watches the way Crowley tries to drop his head back and watch the proceedings simultaneously.

“That’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen,” he moans as Aziraphale takes him down his throat again.

Aziraphale himself is feeling the tugs of his secondary gender again. Something about that cedar-infused scent of his Omega’s slick makes him start thinking about mounting and knotting. His fingers work back toward the source of it, almost absently. Crowley is ready, he can already tell, as he brushes one finger across his entrance.

Crowley keens and thrusts forward. It forces his cock into Aziraphale’s throat and he chokes. He pulls off and coughs.

“Angel, I’m sorry!”

“Nothing to apologize for, dear boy,” he says between coughs. “I’m glad to see you enjoying yourself.”

Crowley’s face flames with embarrassment and Aziraphale pats his stomach as he coughs, hoping to calm him.

“I did enjoy it,” he admits shyly.

Aziraphale wipes the tears from his eyes and sits up to kiss his lover. “I could tell.”

Crowley kisses him again. “Thank you. Would you like me to try?”

He waves his hand down at Aziraphale’s lower half in the invitation. Aziraphale kisses him and guides him onto his back. “I was actually thinking of something else just now. If you’re amendable?”

Crowley raises his knees and offers himself. “Something like this?”

Aziraphale’s brain malfunctions. That was not his intention, but seeing his Omega present himself seems to cloud his thinking.

“I, yes, well,” Aziraphale tries to explain his plan but he can’t help but lick his lips instead.

Crowley blinks at him lazily then rolls up and over onto his knees. He pulls his nightshirt off and tosses it away. He casts a sultry look over his shoulder.

“If I haven’t made myself clear,” he draws, huskily, “I’m amendable.”

The other plans are forgotten. Aziraphale surges forward and licks a stripe down his mate’s spine. Crowley chuckles in that same deep, gravelly way. It drives Aziraphale wild and he grabs his partner’s cheeks and spreads them. Slick is already preparing his way and it smells heavenly.

He dips his tongue into it and swirls it over Crowley’s hole. The Omega sighs, breathily, and rocks backward. It’s lazy, this morning, the way he laps at Crowley’s entrance. His mate does not beg or urge him faster or deeper. He just lets Aziraphale explore him with his tongue. He maps the ridges and furls. He nibbles at the delicate skin between the rise of his cheek and its cleft. As he does, Crowley’s slick doubles.

“You taste lovely, my dear,” he praises with another swipe of his tongue.

Crowley only groans in response. Aziraphale stretches his tongue to a point and eases it into Crowley. Immediately, his mate cries out. It’s a desperate whine which travels right to Aziraphale’s core. He thrusts forward unintentionally. The movement shoves his tongue deep into his Omega and Crowley cries out louder this time.

The heat of his mate is all around him and he does not move his tongue. He can taste the slick coating him, while Crowley’s hot, pulsing walls clench down on him. It’s too much. Aziraphale hums against that ring of muscle then pulls out and away. Crowley protests with a moan, but it’s short-lived.

Aziraphale covers his body with his own and lines himself up. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he informs Crowley matter-of-factly.

He already knows this is going to be a different sort of claiming. It’s quickly becoming the sort of hot and dirty coupling that he’d heard about in the trenches. Soldiers told of taking partners in aggressively when ruts came on. That’s exactly what this is about to be.

He grabs Crowley by the hips and drives deep into him in one thrust. It’s a punishing pace that leaves his balls swinging with each snap of his hips. Crowley’s hands clench the duvet and he cries out loudly. He shoves his hips back to meet each thrust.

This is _fucking_ and it’s lovely. His mate is on his knees, skin glistening with sweat in the firelight. Aziraphale holds his hips still against his own pelvis, reducing Crowley’s ability to direct the speed and depth of each stroke.

Crowley tosses his head and moans. He’s past words. It’s glorious. His slick drips around them and each thrust is a smooth glide into a hot channel.

“I’m going to knot you,” Aziraphale says conversationally.

“Yes,” Crowley hisses in reply.

His pace is automatic as if driven from some animalistic side of him. He slams forward, feeling his knot swell. _Nearly_. It’s nearly time, his inner Alpha growls. He’s going to mate his Omega. He’s going to mate Crowley.

It’s illogical, really. Foolish, even. Crowley and he are married. They have no interest in dissolving their union, nor of separating. They have solidified their union with a legal document, public ceremony, and sexual union complete with claiming marks. This coupling should not affect anything.

Yet, it feels different. It’s wilder somehow.

Crowley’s back bows and he whines desperately. “Angel.”

Aziraphale grabs him by one shoulder and pulls him upward. Crowley reaches behind him and pushes Aziraphale forward as if he can urge him deeper. His hand remains there, holding his lover in place with each thrust.

Aziraphale sees his bite. It’s like a homing beacon and he latches his mouth over the wound. Crowley cries out again and somehow drops back and down, attempting to take Aziraphale into himself further.

“You want me to knot you, Omega?” Aziraphale asks, barely moving away from the claim mark.

Crowley drops his head to the side, allowing Aziraphale more access to the mating mark. He gives some sort of verbal response, but it's more of a moan. Aziraphale braces himself on Crowley’s hips and drives deep into his mate. Unlike their previous couplings when knotting the Omega took a specific angle and thrust, this time it slips right into place. In fact, Crowley is so loose and wet that Aziraphale is able to fuck in full gliding strokes with the knot inside his mate.

Crowley thrashes and moans wantonly. His eyes are closed and his body is fever hot.

“More, more, more,” he begs.

Who is Aziraphale to deny him? He shoves them down onto their hands and knees. He pushes Crowley’s knees further apart and drives into him. His teeth graze his claim mark and his knot rubs inside his mate.

Crowley is inconsolable. He’s whining and moaning. He shivers and pushes back. He finds one of Aziraphale’s hands and brings it to his mouth. He bites the Alpha’s scent gland just as Aziraphale thrusts into him with extra power.

It’s enough to make Crowley come untouched. His body clamps down and Aziraphale is powerless to do anything but bite down and come himself. His orgasm rips out of him like the flood and he spasms so hard that he nearly tears flesh from Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley goes limp, as if he’s fainted and, combined with the power of his orgasm and the extra weight, Aziraphale sags to the floor. The duvet is saturated with Crowley’s spend, so Aziraphale rolls them away from it. Crowley is already asleep, tucked safely against Aziraphale’s chest and held in place by his knot.

Aziraphale lays there, trying to catch his breath. It’s then that a noxious odor reaches his nose. He looks at the fire, trying to identify the root of it.

“Oh, dear! The kippers!” he laments.

They’re burned to the dish and nothing more than smelly ash lumps. Aziraphale grabs the fire poker and shoves the hot dish away from the flames. Then with an amused chuckle, he pulls Crowley closer and nods off himself.

It’s Crowley moving the chair from under the door that next wakes him. He immediately issues the most feral warning growl he’s ever made. Crowley whips to face him.

“Alpha,” he says and bares his throat, “I was sorting out the chamber pot.”

Aziraphale leaps to his feet and strides, hungrily to his mate. “Stay in the den, Omega.”

He glances down at the used chamber pot that sits at his feet. It is very much in need of emptying. Crowley is frozen, claim mark standing out on his pale flesh.

“In the nest,” he orders, then unlocks the door and places the stinking dish into the hall.

After a second thought, he relocks the door and collects other things to be cleaned. The kipper dish, the empty picnic hamper, and the soiled duvet make a pile in the hall. Then, after a thought, he moves to his desk and pens a quick list of items they require. This is also added to the hallway collection. Then, once the door is safely locked and barricaded with the chair, he rings downstairs.

Crowley sits on the bed, hugging his knees. “I wasn’t leaving, Aziraphale.”

“Of course not, my dear,” he agrees, patting Crowley’s foot. “I’m a little… wild at the moment.”

Crowley’s eyes light with an amorous fire. “Me too, angel. Let me show you?”

So he does.

When they wake after that round, Aziraphale collects the goods from the hall. Among them are a clean chamber pot and a pitcher of warm water. Crowley pours the dirty water from the basin into the other pitcher for Aziraphale to trade. He takes the duvet from his mate and makes the bed. It shouldn’t be erotic, but it is.

So he takes his mate over the trunk at the foot of their bed.

And they sleep.

They wake to someone tapping on the door. When it’s unbolted, there is a tray with tea. They eat and bathe. While wiping Aziraphale’s chest with the flannel, Crowley laps at his mating mark.

So Aziraphale takes his mate into their nest and knots him again.

And they sleep.

This time when they wake, they leave the tray, dirty basin of water, and dirty sheets in the hall. It’s replaced with clean bedding and a small bundle with a note from the doctor. Aziraphale reads the directions and changes Crowley’s bandages. He dabs witch hazel onto his bruises and smears the yellow salve onto his cuts. They each care for one another's claiming bites. Crowley uses the same tender touch to see to Aziraphale’s burnt hands.

It’s too much to be that tender and not make love. So they do.

And they sleep.

The days blur in knots and soiled linens. They pass used goods into the hall and retrieve new ones. They read the post that is slid under the door. They nap and chat. They read and fuck. Crowley’s bruises yellow and fade. The fever of their mating does not diminish.

Aziraphale considers this as he seals a letter for the tailor. He commissions new clothing for his mate, starting with a dressing gown. All this time spent naked is lovely, but he wants his lover to stay warm.Crowley is wearing his shift—the last piece of clean laundry he has and he strolls over to Aziraphale’s desk as if nothing is on his mind. The Alpha watches his mate sit at his feet and take his heel in his hand.

“Yes, my love?”

Crowley smiles contentedly up at him and sets to work with a pedicure kit. It’s strange to have someone touch such an intimate spot, but it makes Crowley purr, so who is Aziraphale to deny him? He relaxes as Crowley buffs his nails and massages salve into his heels.

“Who are you writing?” he asks as he works.

“The tailor. You’ve run short on comfortable garments for lounging in our den. It’s an easy fix,” Aziraphale states.

Crowley looks around the room at his new gifts and his expression swings between pleased and overwhelmed. Aziraphale reaches down and strokes Crowley’s hair.

“You deserve to be spoiled. Soon, we’ll go to London. I’d like to have some suits made for you and some gowns. Whatever you’d like,” he rumbles.

Crowley’s purr expands with pleasure, then slows with his next question, “Perhaps, some… negligee?”

Aziraphale immediately growls with pleasure. He cups Crowley’s head and guides him up into his lap. “Oh yes, I’d like to see you wrapped in silk and lace.” He touches Crowley’s sharp clavicles and thumbs at his nipple. “Stockings. Perhaps something very risque?”

Crowley’s purr resumes and he wiggles a little in Aziraphale’s lap. It’s not sexual, it’s just companionship. The posture begins to pull at Crowley’s ribs, soon, and he abandons Aziraphale’s lap for the floor once more. He buffs the nails on Aziraphale’s other foot while he opens a letter from his solicitor.

“You’re now my sole heir,” he says with relief. “The changes to my will have been recorded.”

Crowley stills and looks up at him through long lashes, “I can’t inherit. I’m an Omega.”

Aziraphale curls his toes so they pinch Crowley’s thigh where his foot rests. “Not exactly true, my darling. An Omega cannot inherit unless specifically outlined by their mate. In the event of an Alpha child, obviously, my estate would pass to them. As that is not going to happen, I simply documented for you to be cared for.”

Crowley leans forward and presses his forehead to Aziraphale’s shin. “I’d rather not think of losing you.”

“You haven’t.”

They’re quiet then as Aziraphale opens the last missive in his pile. He reads it and summarizes the words to his mate. “Anathema and Newt have returned home. Lord and Lady Dowling left the morning before the Devices. There is to be an inquest, it seems when you are I are finished with our honeymoon.”

“Is the Dame still here?”

Aziraphale drops the paper onto the desk and touches Crowley’s temple. “It appears so. Your brother is in the local auxiliary hospital and Blanc and your mother are Gabriel’s guests until Lucifer is well enough to travel for Tophet.”

Crowley makes a thoughtful noise, then rises and cleans the pedicure kit. He rinses his hands in the basin and wanders the room toward the door. Aziraphale watches him as he goes, tracking each step with his eyes.

“Crowley?” he asks as his mate approaches the chair that barricades the door. “What are you doing?”

Crowley sets his hand on the back of the chair and Aziraphale is across the room in three strides. A warning growl nearly rumbles forth, but then Crowley catches his eye. He casts a mischievous glance over his shoulder and darts away, deeper into the room. He stalls there and waits for Aziraphale to catch on.

His cedar scent has taken on a spicy hint and it makes Aziraphale’s eyes dilate. This is a game—an old game that is deep in their natures. Intently, he lowers his head down and lunges for his mate. Crowley laughs and runs to the window. He’s cornered.

The Alpha lets his secondary gender have free rein. This is the hunt that he was made for. He stalks and Crowley’s breast heaves. His eyes cast around for an escape: Aziraphale’s desk is at one hip and wall at the other. Aziraphale pounces.

Crowley’s Omega instincts are in drive and he dives away. Aziraphale manages to touch his hip as he escapes with a giggle. He’s across the room again, this time slowing at the fireplace and looking around frantically. His indecision slows him and Aziraphale lunges again. He has Crowley around the waist, but the Omega fights and escapes by planting his feet on the trunk and throwing his body weight onto the bed. He bounces and tumbles to his feet. He’s away again, dashing the short distance to the dressing table.

There’s no place else to go really, but he tries anyway, rushing past the fireplace again to the tallboy that barricades the door to his own bedroom. He paws at it, but all is lost. Aziraphale pins him in with his body. He presses up against his mate, feeling every line of wiry muscle tense when he hauls him back against his chest. Slick already wets his thighs down to his knees. It’s apparent that the chase has Crowley worked up. Aziraphale’s arms circle his mate and hold him still.

“Why ever did you try to run, nymph?” he asks, in a deep baritone.

He presses his nose to Crowley’s hair and inhales. The Omega struggles and wriggles. “You knew I would catch you, my little sprite. I will have you.”

Crowley bucks and thrashes, his own innate desires driving his need to run and be caught. Using his foot, Aziraphale kicks his dressing-gown closer.

“I won’t let you escape now, little sprite. I’ve caught you. You’re mine,” he growls possessively.

He pinches the sash of his dressing gown with his toes and lifts it up. It’s a thick linen cord. He binds Crowley’s wrists together with it and chuffs darkly. He turns Crowley around and prepares to pick him up.

Crowley bats his eyelashes at him, then ducks under Aziraphale’s arm and is off for the window again. Their den a silly space to hunt and run in. There is no place to really hide, but Crowley’s actions are driven by pure feral compulsions. Aziraphale is no different. He rockets after Crowley and pins him against the wall. This time he’s successful.

He grabs Crowley around the waist and throws him bodily over his shoulder. “Now, I shall take you back to my den and have my way with you,” he promises.

He slides each curtain shut so that their bed is dark like an animal’s cave. Then he throws Crowley onto the bed and crawls overtop him. Crowley immediately tries to escape, but Aziraphale rolls him onto his side, forces his legs up, and secures them in the same sash as his hands. He’s bent in half, wrists and ankles tied together.

Aziraphale pats Crowley’s arsecheek. “What a good sprite I’ve caught. You’ll warm my bed.”

There will be times when their coupling will need preparation and lubrication, but this time, like the ones before it in this passionate lovemaking, it is unnecessary. Aziraphale lines up and rams home. Crowley struggles but it’s play-acting.

Aziraphale has never taken a lover at this angle. He drives into Crowley sideways. Crowley shivers and groans, pulling on the sash as he moves his arms or legs.

“When we go to London, you’ll have more space to run and hide, my little sprite,” he promises with another thrust. “You will not escape me. You’re mine.”

Crowley pants and shivers, his skin feverish once again. “Alpha.”

“I’ll knot you and keep you in my den to breed whenever I want,” he murmurs directly into Crowley’s ear.

Crowley sighs as if soaking in a hot bath, and it makes Aziraphale thrust forward into him. It’s a game. Yet, under that, in some hidden part of them, this is perfection. This is what he wants, really, his partner safe and healthy in his bed with all his needs and wants met.

Bound and protected, Aziraphale’s knot slides into his mate with ease and out again.

“Oh,” he whispers wonderingly. “Oh, Crowley.”

Inside him Omega, he feels complete. His forehead drops against Crowley’s injured ribs, holding back from fucking him. Crowley is breathing hard. With a loose grip, he strokes his mate until he cries out, nearly pulsing. Then Aziraphale pulls away. It’s sweet to care for him and to hold him. Crowley comes with a sad dribble and a shiver, but he’s still hard. Immediately, Aziraphale strokes him again. Crowley shudders and mews as the touch reinforces the disappointment of his ruined orgasm. He’s extremely oversensitive.

The knot between them grows. Previously, this has made Aziraphale unable to stop humping into his mate. This time, he lies still, letting his weight press Crowley into the bed.

“Crowley, my love,” he whispers, still drawing pitiful sobs from his lover with his hand. “Oh my darling, how beautiful you are. Such talented prey. I’ll keep you safe, my dear. I’ve caught you and now I’ll keep you.”

Crowley is burning hot, sparking from the inside. Aziraphale pulls his hand back and touches Crowley’s claiming mark with his fingers. The flesh is bruised and mangled from his multiple bites. His chest doesn’t look much better, of course. Crowley’s teeth have mauled his mating mark, leaving it chewed and swollen.

Aziraphale pulls all the way out and thrusts back in. The knot swells but isn’t engorged enough to catch yet. He twists Crowley’s nipple, then cups his erection again. Another thrust and he’s seated all the way inside that molten heat.

He strokes Crowley and listens to how his voice hitches and his breathing labors. He’s close again, bordering on the edge of control. Aziraphale takes him in hand tightly and strokes, then he pulls away again. Come dribbles out again and Crowley keens.

“That’s it, my love,” Aziraphale coaxes. “Does that feel good?”

Aziraphale rolls his hips and the knot slides in again. Crowley is nearly inconsolable. He’s moaning and crying. Tears leak from his eyes. The Alpha growls low in his chest and touches him again.

“Oh my sweet boy,” he praises.

Then he thrusts in and the knot catches. Another roll of his hips and his orgasm winds through him in a warm crest. He sighs with delight as the knot expands and jerks.

Crowley lays below him. He’s tied. He’s knotted. He’s quaking with each stroke of Aziraphale’s hand. It’s perfection.

“Angel,” he cries, his voice ragged.

Aziraphale kisses the skin under his mouth, avoiding the yellowing bruises. “Yes, my love?”

The knot swells, but slower than it has in past. His cock jerks in Crowley, settled inside his channel tying them together. Crowley is beyond response. He just groans and cries. With two fingers, Aziraphale traces the head of his erect cock. Crowley whimpers, too far gone to even buck into Aziraphale’s touch.

He kisses the skin at his ribs again, this time while he grips his mate tightly. It’s smooth strokes as his knot swells and jumps. Crowley sobs as he strokes faster.

“Come on, Crowley. Give it to me, love.”

The knot swells like a crescendo and Aziraphale twists his thumb over Crowley’s head then strokes down. Crowley throws back his head and comes with a shout. His spend shoots out between them and coats Crowley’s bound arms.

Exhausted, Crowley falls completely limp onto the bed. Aziraphale lays across him, knotted together. He reaches over and unties the sash that binds his wrist and ankles. Crowley has already tumbled headlong into sleep, tears and come soaking the bed beneath him.

He’s content and fulfilled. Perhaps more than he’s ever been before. With a hum, he kisses Crowley’s side again and closes his eyes.

When he wakes later, it’s because the knot has softened and come spills out of Crowley around his spent cock. Crowley sleeps on, nearly unconscious it seems. He does not even twitch when Aziraphale cleans him with a flannel. He lifts his mate and tucks him under the duvet. He curls around Crowley and holds his Omega close.

When Crowley wakes some hours later, Aziraphale is stroking back his hair.

“Hello,” he greets with a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

“Hi, angel,” Crowley responds.

He smiles sweetly, but he’s tired. Clearly, Aziraphale has worn him out. In the past few days, every time they wake, they both feel the low burn ready to be rekindled. This time is different. Aziraphale feels sated. Crowley snuggles to his chest and nuzzles under his chin. He purrs softly and sleepily.

“I think maybe we’ll dress for dinner. If you agree?” Aziraphale suggests, holding his mate to him.

Crowley hums, “We should dress in the other room. Keep people out of the den.”

It’s a wonderful idea, so when they’ve roused themselves enough to dress, Aziraphale pushes the tallboy back into its usual spot. He dons his dressing gown and enters the hallway to open the shared door to Crowley’s room. There is no panic when he does this. Their den is safe and warm, but he’s comfortable leaving it. He selects his outfit for dinner, a task usually left to his valet and carries the items into Crowley’s room. Crowley rings from that space and opens his wardrobe.

“What would you like me in tonight, angel?” he asks studying his options.

  
Aziraphale settles in an armchair and watches his mate. “You’re lovely in everything, Crowley. In light of our activities, you might consider something loose.”

Crowley purses his lips and touches the skirts of his gowns, thoughtfully. There is a knock at the door and a footman awaits them.

“Lord Crowley and I are going to dress for dinner. Would you ask Eve and Quartermaster to attend us in this room?”

The footman gives a sharp nod and hurries off. The valet is faster than Eve by a few moments but seems relieved to be dressing his lord outside their den. Eve sends Crowley behind the dressing screen and disappears with him, a shift, and a gown.

“Heavens! Lord Crowley, you look like you’ve been… I mean, excuse me,” Eve controls herself and coughs to cover her embarrassment.

“Yes, my husband has been very enthusiastic,” Crowley laughs.

“It’s chilly in here,” she comments to Crowley, quickly changing the subject. “I wish you’d let us know to light a fire, my lord.”

Crowley chuckles. “Perhaps a small one before bed, but I’ll not use this room. Our den is far too comfortable to leave.”

“This is to become a dressing room until you’re delivering babies, hmm?” she asks.

Aziraphale frowns heavily but allows Quartermaster to help him shoulder his shirt then tie on his scent cuffs. His mother delivered his siblings and him in the den, not her bedroom. It was very scandalous, but it seems right.

“That’s a problem to consider another day,” Crowley offers, steering the conversation away.

“Mr. Quartermaster tells me that Zionview Cottage has dressing rooms for both the Alpha and Omega,” Eve continues.

Quartermaster grunts and loops around Aziraphale to help with his many buttons.

“It does,” Aziraphale answers.

“Will you be moving there?” Eve continues.

“We hadn’t discussed it,” Aziraphale answers.

“Soon, I’d think,” Crowley replies overtop him. “Lord Fellthrop is about to welcome his first child. I highly doubt he’ll want to be tripping over his brother and his mate.”

“You’re hoping for an Alpha then,” Quartermaster asks, gruffly. “Let you get on with your own lives.”

“I think Lord Crowley and I only want the baby to be healthy. I am pleased to be the Earl of Fellthrop, but we all know that the natural order of things should allow my brother’s heir to take over the title,” Aziraphale answers as Quartermaster wraps his cravat.

“I was thinking the Mathematique tonight, Your Grace,” Quartermaster suggests, holding the ends of the cravat.

“By all means, temptation accomplished!”

“What’s that?” Crowley asks as he re-enters the room from behind the screen. “What are you being tempted to, angel?”

"Just a new way to tie my cravat--" his words die away when he sees his mate.

Aziraphale takes in his husband’s beauty. He’s dressed in a simple black muslin gown with cap sleeves. Black lace crisscrosses the bodice, but there are no other embellishments. Even the hem is a simple stitch. Eve helps Crowley sit and begins to dress his hair.

“Where the heavens is your hairbrush, my lord?” she asks, frustrated.

Quartermaster slides Aziraphale’s tailcoat onto his shoulders. “I’m afraid I moved it into our rooms. Give me a moment.”

Aziraphale pushes open the door to their den and can’t help but smile. It smells like them. Crowley’s brush and new comb are on the dressing table and he easily grabs them along with some stockings and boots for himself.

Eve takes these with a chuckle. “I see you looked after Lord Crowley’s hair.”

“It is lovely, Eve, how could I not?” he replies before sitting in the armchair to put on his stockings and boots.

“If that’s all, my lord, I’ll leave you,” Quartermaster says with a bow.

“Of course,” Aziraphale sends him away.

Eve pins Crowley’s hair into an elaborate coiffure and adds the decorative combs Crowley wore to their first dinner together.

“Thank you, Eve,” Aziraphale dismisses her. “I’ll help him finish.”

Eve raises her eyebrows in amusement. “I’ll see you before bed then?”

She curtsies to them and latches the door behind her. Aziraphale moves to the dressing table and kneels before his husband. He takes Crowley’s stockings and pushes his dress up to his thighs.

“Your foot?” he asks and Crowley sets it on Aziraphale’s knee.

Aziraphale lifts it and slides the stocking over Crowley’s foot and pulls it over his leg. At the knee, he pauses to kiss the skin, then hides his touch under the stocking. He pulls the red ribbons around the Omega’s thigh and ties them with a bow. He repeats this with Crowley’s other leg and stocking.

“I think you need more silk stockings,” he says, lifting Crowley’s leg to his mouth.

“I think you just put those on me so you can take them off again,” Crowley purrs, knowingly.

“Oh, that, my dear, is a given.”

He finds Crowley’s slippers and slides them on his feet. Then he takes his scent cuffs and holds out his hand for Crowley’s wrist. Crowley rests his arm in Aziraphale’s hand, palm up. Aziraphale kisses his scent gland, smearing his husband’s oil onto his lips. Then he sets the scent cuff over his gland and ties the ribbon. He kisses Crowley’s palm then helps him slip on his glove. The same process is repeated on the other hand. Crowley’s eyes are shining yellow with lust.

“You expect me to go downstairs now?” he asks as Aziraphale stands.

“I think so,” Aziraphale replies, deviously. “You look too lovely to be hidden in this room. I think I’ll take you down and show you off.”

Crowley turns on the stool and examines his face in the mirror. He touches his gloved fingertips to his right eye. It’s still blue and black, while the left is more yellow. His jaw is still swollen and he frowns at it. Aziraphale excuses himself to their den and returns with the jar of salve. He smears some onto his fingers and works it into Crowley’s shoulder. The fabric of his dress half covers it.

“I think we need to tend to those well tonight,” he admits. “I will not have you getting sick from an infection.”

Crowley meets his gaze in the mirror. “I’ll be happy to look after you.”

“May I escort my husband to dinner?” he asks holding out his hand.

Crowley takes the salve jar from him and sets it on the dressing table, then takes his hand.

“I’d like that, angel.”

They descend the stairs hand-in-hand, speaking quietly. The drawing-room door is open and they enter to find Gabriel and Lady Burningstone already there.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel exclaims and throws up his hands.

“Brother mine,” Aziraphale greets and holds out his hand for a shake.

He does not release Crowley’s hand to do so, which pleases his husband. Crowley gives a shy curtsy to Gabriel and his mother.

“Good evening,” Crowley greets.

“Jesus Christ,” Lady Burningstone curses, raising her quizzing glass to examine Crowley’s mating mark, “you’ve married a wolverine.”

“Nonsense,” Gabriel laughs. “It’s a sign of a successful honeymoon!”

“Eleven days did seem a bit excessive,” Lady Burningstone replies, primly.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a glance. Eleven days? Crowley covers his mouth with his gloved hand to hide his laugh.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley leans close to his ear and whispers, “I knew we were a little lost in one another, but, seriously, angel, did you know we’d been up there for eleven days?”

Aziraphale can’t help but give his husband a seductive smile. “You’re very easy to get lost in, my darling.”

Crowley blushes, but any further teasing ends as Lady Blanc arrives.

“Forgive me,” she apologizes, “I may not be good company tonight. Lord Lucifer is in a bad way today.”

“How is my son?” Lady Burningstone asks, still staring at Crowley’s mating mark.

Blanc sighs and fidgets with her fan. “He’s in a great deal of pain. The doctors give him laudanum, but he’s just in fits. I want to take him home to Tophet, but he refuses to go.”

“Perhaps he can be persuaded, now that his dear brother is out of his den,” Lady Burningstone suggests.

Aziraphale cannot help himself. He looks directly at her and glares.

“Forgive me, Lady Burningstone, but if you’ve forgotten, Lord Lucifer attacked my mate and threatened our lives. He is a danger to Lord Crowley. He is no longer welcome to be received in this house as long as my husband is present,” he declares and Crowley squeezes his hand. “You’re lucky to be in my brother’s good graces and not subjected to staying in the local public house.”

Lady Burningstone studies him cooly before addressing Lady Blanc. “Have you heard from your darling boy, Adam?”

Before the conversation can turn, the door opens and Uriel joins them. She smiles when she sees Aziraphale and Crowley, but otherwise, does not address the party.

“Hello, wife,” Gabriel greets, but Uriel will not meet his eyes.

She greets Crowley instead, “Welcome to married life, Lord Crowley. How was the honeymoon?”

Before he can answer, however, Lady Burningstone smugly states, “It looks pheromone-filled. Who can say what those scents might bring people to do.”

The comment is strange, but Shadwell enters and calls into dinner, so Aziraphale does not ask for further information. Crowley stays at his side, even as their seated.

“Brother mine, you can’t sit with your husband!” Gabriel chides.

Crowley’s hold on his hand increases to a death grip. Aziraphale winces.

“Perhaps we can overlook that bit of decorum tonight,” he suggests, smoothing the back of Crowley’s glove with his thumb. “I’d rather sit with my mate.”

Gabriel chuckles, “Newlyweds are too difficult to separate. Very well!”

Crowley sits next to Uriel, still holding Aziraphale’s hand. Lady Burningstone settles across from them, between Gabriel and Blanc. Gabriel is the last to sit, grabbing the remaining seat between his brother and Lady Blanc.

“So what’s the news we’ve missed since our convalescents?” Crowley asks the table.

His mother glares daggers at him and Crowley noticeably cowers. Aziraphale lifts his hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. It grabs Crowley’s attention. Aziraphale smiles at him.

“Be yourself, my dear. No more of that perfect Omega tripe. I want my husband,” he whispers.

Crowley swallows and nods. He sits up again and faces his sister-in-law. “I’m sure something has happened. Any news about my brother Hastur?”

Lady Burningstone stares at her son in a mixture of rage and disquiet. “Your brother Usher has fronted the money to make Hastur’s scandalous union more palatable. They’ve taken a house in Bath for Lord Ligur’s health.”

Lady Blanc seems excited by the prospect, “Hastur says they have a view into Sydney Gardens. I’m hoping we can visit soon.”

“My girl,” Lady Burningstone sneers, as their glasses are filled and the soup is served, “your husband and Alpha has lost his hand in a pistol explosion in the most scandalous wedding in this century. Hastur might have you to visit, but no one will be receiving you anytime soon.”

Crowley has paled again and stares into his soup.

Aziraphale glares at her, “You’re still not willing to take your part of the responsibility for the scandal that will surround our union?”

Gabriel clears his throat to change the subject, “You won’t know this news: Sandalphon is expecting!”

“That is good news,” Aziraphale answers, genuinely, even though anger still burns in him.

Crowley, however, is watching Uriel. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand, then releases it. He leans toward Lady Fellthrop and touches her knee.

“Are you well, madam?” he asks.

Lady Burningstone sips her wine and comments sharply, “I’m sure it’s nothing that a little night among family cannot fix. Especially with all the celebrating going on, wouldn’t you say, Lord Fellthrop?”

The comment is barbed, but Aziraphale lacks any context. Gabriel is sweating though and Uriel looks ready to be sick.

“Is the baby well?” Crowley asks, directing his question at Uriel’s middle. “Should we call the doctor?”

“Forgive me,” Uriel begs, her eyes shining with tears, “I am very unwell.”

She stands and hurries out of the dining room before anyone can stand. Gabriel does not follow her but drains his glass of wine in one swallow.

“Brother mine,” Aziraphale begins.

“Leave it, Aziraphale,” Gabriel growls. “You’ve done enough.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Crowley snaps, his tender hold on polite manners snapped.

A footman’s eyes widen, but otherwise, no one reacts. Lady Blanc sets her napkin on the table and excuses herself.

“I’ll just see to our hostess,” she says and slips out of the dining room.

Lady Burningstone is in her element. She sips soup from her spoon and looks gleefully at Lord Fellthrop.

“It’s the tale as old as time,” she rumbles. “Omega pheromones in the air. Alphas going into spontaneous ruts.”

Aziraphale looks from his mother-in-law to his brother. Crowley might be a step ahead of him because he looks to the servants with a kind, but unwavering smile.

“Might you all excuse us for a moment?” he demands, but phrases this as a question.

The footman and butler disappear below stairs and Crowley rounds on Dame Jayanthony.

“Mother, the gossip that you are stirring is unbecoming and detrimental—“

“As if your claiming was any less scandalous,” she retorts. “You should know your place, mated or otherwise. An Omega should not—“

“Shaddup,” Crowley sneers and reaches across the table to grab her wineglass.

He drinks it and then glares at Gabriel. “So you cheated on your wife and got Sandalphon, your own sister’s Omega, ‘in trouble’?”

Gabriel’s eyes are huge and Lady Burningstone is frozen. Aziraphale’s mind whirls, trying to find the dots that Crowley has connected. Clearly, he’s gotten this story correct.

“Brother mine, you scoundrel!” Aziraphale snaps, suddenly enraged. “Your own mate is carrying your child!”

“As is his sister’s mate,” Lady Burningstone adds. “How very lucky.”

“It was a terrible misunderstanding—“ Gabriel begins to argue, before jumping to his feet and pacing about the dining room.

“Just _another_ scandal from your wedding, Crowley,” Lady Burningstone adds.

Her eyes are sharp and Aziraphale wonders how he discounted her cunning before.

“You need to leave,” he growls.

He needs those cunning eyes off his husband.

“Why are you even still here?” he continues.

Lady Burningstone smiles, slow and predatory. Gabriel falters mid-pace and then strides to his chair, grabs another glass of wine, and chugs it.

“That’s how you’re getting the money you want,” Crowley says slowly, the truth dawning on him. “You have blackmail.”

Aziraphale is sickened. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s business,” Lady Burningstone replies.

Crowley eases his chair back from the table. “Angel, I think I’m going back to our rooms. I’ve seen enough of the family for tonight.”

Aziraphale stands also and considers the food spread across the table. He picks up one of the savory pies, a plate of pickled beets, and a plate of marzipan. He directs Crowley to the open bottles of wine.

“Grab some, won’t you? Some glasses too, please, my love?” As Crowley selects two bottles and stemware, along with some silverware, Aziraphale addresses the other Alphas at the table. “You are both despicable. Lady Burningstone, from this point on, you will no longer be in contact with your son or me. You are no acquaintance I want. As far as I’m concerned, you can burn in hell.”

Lady Burningstone does not seem surprised at this comment. Crowley is beaming at him. Then, with pain in his heart, Aziraphale turns to his brother.

“Gabriel, I have no words. The concept of betraying the one you love as you have done is incomprehensible. Now that I have a mate, I cannot imagine touching anyone but him. That falseness aside, to do this to our sister is… heinous!” he stares at his brother, his face contorted in confusion and anger.

“Crowley and I will be departing for Zionview Cottage as soon as we can. I will not subject him to such impropriety. I will, however, invite your wife to stay with us and weather this storm.”

Gabriel makes several noises as if he’s ready to argue, but each one falls short of becoming words. Aziraphale leads his mate out of the dining room and up the stairs to their den. Crowley slows as they enter the family’s win and looks toward Uriel’s suite. He does not move to go there.

“That poor woman,” he says as they enter Crowley’s bedroom.

Aziraphale uses the table there to stack the dishes on and take the bottles and stemware from his husband. Once everything is set down, he takes Crowley’s elbow in his hand and pulls him close.

“I will never cheat, my darling,” he promises. “I swore to you as I swear to you now that there will be no paramour. You are all I want.”

Crowley nuzzles his neck and kisses his Adam’s apple. “I know, angel.”

Aziraphale kisses him then, before shucking off his tailcoat and throwing it on the bed. Crowley unties his gloves and scent cuffs and lays them on the bed next to Aziraphale’s coat. Then it’s just a dizzy scene of removing clothes. The cravat makes Crowley laugh as Aziraphale unwinds it. He chuckles, even as he unbuttons Aziraphale’s cuffs and unties his scent cuffs.

“I couldn’t smell you,” he admits.

“It’s disconcerting, isn’t it?” Aziraphale notes, before pulling out a chair at the table for his mate to sit. “No matter. A quiet meal for us here, then perhaps some chess?”

Crowley smiles and sits. “And some wine?”

He pours them each a glass and Aziraphale serves them each food. They are quiet as they eat that night. Their minds are too full of these strange events. As Crowley pours another glass of wine, he seems ready to talk. He sets his fork onto his plate and leans in his chair, cradling his wineglass.

“How much would the Dame get out of your brother to keep this quiet?” he theorizes. “An annuity, like they wanted with the bride price, or a single, lump-sum?”

Aziraphale fidgets with his shirt, finally tugging it out of his trousers. “I feel I’d need more information about the situation before I could make a guess. If, for example, Lady Burningstone had a piece of correspondence to trade, one sum. If it’s just hearsay, it could be stretched over years of payments.”

Crowley drains his glass and empties the bottle into it. “Do you think your sister knows?”

Aziraphale sighs and rubs his face. “If Uriel knows, then I’m sure Michael does as well. Then again, perhaps that’s the blackmail your mother has.”

Crowley shakes his head, “No, that hag is no mother of mine.”

Aziraphale nods. “You never have to see her again.”

Crowley inhales, “You realize that you’re forcing yourself to dine in our rooms with only me for the foreseeable future.”

Aziraphale lifts a marzipan Grecian urn up and breaks a piece off. He stretches across the little table and feeds it to his mate. “How terrible. How ever will I survive?”

Crowley chuckles and chews the sweet. “Could we go and see Zionview Cottage soon?”

“We could go tomorrow if you’d like—I do warn you, my dear, that no one has let it in nearly two years. An older gentleman leased it for most of my childhood. He fell into financial troubles and abandoned the property. His belongings were taken as collateral against the liens.”

“It’s empty then?”

“We’ll need furniture and art—the whole cat and caboodle.”

Crowley groans. “Angel, where did you learn these phrases?”

Aziraphale ignores his whining. “One benefit to that is the furniture in our den, it’s mine. We can take our nest with us.”

Crowley gives a sigh of relief but then looks embarrassed. He covers his reaction with a question, “This suite’s furniture too?”

“I’m sure we could ask my brother to part with it. I don’t think it had any sentimental value to him or Uriel,” he frowns and finishes his glass of wine.

“Furnishing a house,” Crowley says slowly, “that will be expensive.”

Aziraphale takes his hand and knits their fingers together. “It’s a good thing that I have money, then.”

Crowley chuckles. “And the house in London? Your bookshop?”

“Is furnished, actually. My mother was very fond of London and kept her rooms there ready for house parties both during and after the season,” Aziraphale says. “We can visit the moment you’d like to, my dear.”

Crowley taps his black eye. “This has to heal first.”

Aziraphale nods decisively. “A few weeks then and we’ll visit London. Until then, I’d like to go to Tadfield and visit the shops.”

“Planning to dress me like a paper doll, angel?” Crowley teases, pouring wine from the second open bottle into their glasses.

“I am planning to spoil you as you ought to have been treated your whole life, my dear boy,” he argues, holding out his class in a toast. “To starting our life together.”

Crowley looks bashful for a moment. “More like shopping to start our life together,” he corrects, then touches his glass to Aziraphale’s. “And to you, the one I love.”

Aziraphale feels his own cheeks heat but he drinks. They finish the bottle, then set their dishes in the hallway, lock the doors (and place chairs under both bedroom doorknobs), and Crowley sets up the chess set in front of the fireplace. Aziraphale slips back into their den and pours them each a finger of Scotch.

He leans around the door and calls, “Have you ever had whisky?”

Crowley arranges the pawns, “I don’t believe I have.”

Aziraphale smiles and adds water to his husband’s. “Then take this slow, my dear,” he advises as he sets the glass at Crowley’s elbow.

He settles in the armchair across from his husband and watches the way the fire lights his face. Crowley sniffs the drink and sips it. He makes a face and after he’s able to catch his breath, coughs.

“My, that’s,” he coughs again, “nice.”

Aziraphale laughs, polite and happy. “Don’t drink it if you don’t like it, my love.”

Crowley sips it again and this time seems prepared for the burn. He nods thoughtfully once he’s done so. Pleased, Aziraphale pulls off his boots and drops them at the foot of Crowley’s bed. He shucks his stockings and tosses them onto the bed. His mate watches him with bright yellow eyes.

“Will you help me with mine, angel?” he asks, his voice teasing. “You put them on me so well.”

Aziraphale sinks from his chair to his knees and crawls over to his husband. He does not lift Crowley’s skirt, but ducks under it. He pinches a stocking ribbon between his forefingers and tugs. Then, with his nose, he rolls the silk down. He kisses each inch of Crowley’s skin that is exposed. Once down below the knee, he lifts Crowley’s foot and continues down to his ankle. He tosses the stocking away, then repeats the process on the other leg.

Under Crowley’s skirt, Aziraphale takes in the view. The firelight shines through his skirt, lighting the line of his slip and camisole. As fashion dictates, Crowley wears no drawers. His cock hangs free in the air, half-hard from Aziraphale’s attention.

The Alpha pushes Crowley’s knees wide and pulls him so he’s seated on the lip of the chair. Then he nuzzles at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He nips it and rubs his nose along Crowley’s cock. It’s gaining interest, but it's slow to harden.

“Have I worn you out, my love?” he teases and sucks one of Crowley’s testicles into his mouth.

Crowley sighs with pleasure and shifts further down the chair to grant his husband more access to his body. Aziraphale lifts off and mouths the other testicle instead. It’s a nice way to forget his troubles. Instead of worrying about these family problems, he loses himself in Crowley’s body and pleasure.

He sucks his husband’s soft cock into his mouth and feels it grow against his hard palate. It’s an indulgent feeling. He palms himself through his trousers. Aziraphale works Crowley’s prick with his tongue and lips. Above him, somewhere outside the tent of his gown, Crowley moans and his hips hitch.

After the two ruined orgasms that afternoon, Crowley is still sensitive, and every swipe of Aziraphale’s tongue brings him intense pleasure that borders on pain. Aziraphale himself is struggling to open the panel on the front of his breeches. He’s hard and ready. He grips himself in a strong stroke.

“Are you touching yourself, angel?” Crowley asks with a pout. “I can’t see you.”

Aziraphale backs off and laps at Crowley’s cock head like an ice lolly. “What a shame. I suppose you’ll just have to wait until next time.”

He’s close and knowing that Crowley wants to see him spurns him on. He twists his wrist and flicks his thumb over his head. It's smooth strokes down his shaft. Meanwhile, he takes his mate deep into his mouth and swallows around him. The Omega cock is not as long as most Alpha or Beta’s. Fitting the entire thing in his mouth is no choking hazard. The sounds it draws out of Crowley would make such worth it even if it happened.

Crowley struggles to keep his bottom planted on the chair and not thrust up into the wet heat of Aziraphale’s mouth. He’s panting with little cries of desperation. Then, suddenly, he goes rigid and he shoots off into Aziraphale’s mouth. Cedar bursts over his tastebuds and he groans. He strokes himself faster and tighter as he swallows. Then, a little extra sensitive himself, he explodes across his hand. He slides out from under Crowley’s skirt and straddles his waist, forcing him to sit back in the chair.

“Delicious,” he praises, then offers his hand to Crowley.

The Omega obediently laps at his spend. His tongue licks between his fingers and sucks each finger into his mouth.

“You’re so good,” he praises further, tracing his finger along the lace edge of Crowley’s bodice until he meets the raised flesh of his mating mark. “So good to me.”

Crowley sighs and applies some teeth to Aziraphale’s pinkie, which is still in his mouth. 

“Shall we get you out of this?” he suggests, standing.

Crowley joins him and allows Aziraphale to undo the pins and buttons that hold him into his gown. It is tossed unceremoniously onto the unused bed. Aziraphale’s shirt and breeches follow. Then, he helps his naked husband sit at his dressing table. He pulls the combs and pins free, then brushes the red locks until they shine.

Aziraphale finds a clean nightshirt for Crowley in the dresser and pulls it over his head. He leaves Crowley with his whiskey and changes for bed himself. Crowley, however, follows him in shortly.

He climbs into their nest and sighs. “I might just take a nap, angel. Until June.”

Aziraphale chuckles then goes to bank the fire in the other room. He slides the door shut to the other bedroom, finds a book, and joins his mate in bed. Crowley is already dozing.

“Sleep well, my darling,” Aziraphale says, kissing his temple.

“Mmm,” Crowley agrees, rolling to tuck himself into Aziraphale’s side, “love you.”

Scandal is all around them, but things are still all right in their nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes  
> \- Right, so if this much scandal actually happened, I'm pretty sure Aziraphale would be running away to America.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments and generous time spent reading. Obviously, this is the only thing getting me through my work week right now. 
> 
> Teacher burnout hit sometime last week (we'd been back in class for like two days at that point). I didn't become an educator to teach asynchronous hybrid English classes... keeping my kids safe is so important, but I am so stupid tired.
> 
> You, however, have been powering me through. I just wanted to say thank you if you've cheerleaded this past week. Really, you're a lifesafer. Please look after yourselves and stay safe!

Before the rest of the house is down for breakfast, Aziraphale and Crowley are drinking tea at the dining room table.

“Shadwell, could you ask Glozier to hitch up Harry the Rabbit to the gig?” Aziraphale requests as he takes a bite of Bath bun.

“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler replies. “When are you interested in departing?”

Aziraphale chews. “Two hours or so? I have some business to attend to before we can head out.”

When Shadwell inclines his head, Crowley pours his husband more tea.

“Harry the Rabbit?” he teases with a raised eyebrow.

“He’s my old friend,” Aziraphale replies with a grin. “He’s possibly the dumbest beast on God’s Good Green Earth, but he’s steady.”

“You rode him to Oxford?” Crowley asks, thinking of the bay stallion.

Aziraphale hums in agreement. “He hates the gig, but it’s him or Bentley. That horse only knows one speed and I’m not looking to break my neck today.”

Crowley is curious, “Bentley likes to run?”

“I nearly forgot, you did mention an inclination for speed. Perhaps we can ride out instead? If you’d rather.”

Crowley shakes his head, “I didn’t bring my riding gear.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, “We need to send for the rest of your belongings.”

“We could always visit Tophet. You could meet my—our, I mean, nephew. Adam’s nothing like his father. We could take Blanc home… it might encourage the Dame to take her to leave.”

“Forgive me, my dear, but I’m unwilling to sit in a carriage for any length of time with your mother,” he replies primly.

Crowley grins, “You’re a battle-hardened soldier and you’re telling me that you’re afraid of Lady Burningstone?”

“I am a Cavalry officer,” Aziraphale corrects. “And one who knows not to ride into a battle he cannot win.”

Crowley finishes his tea and sets his teacup in its saucer, “In a battle against a little old lady, you could take her.”

Aziraphale studies him astutely, “Exactly why I shouldn’t be left in a small enclosed space with her.”

Crowley’s mouth falls open and his eyebrows raise. His husband is full of surprises. He clears his throat, “I’d help you hide the body.”

“My dear, you mistake me,” Aziraphale replies properly. “There wouldn't be any body to find. The first time she made a verbal barb directed at you, I’d end her. I find that I am quite at the end of my ability to extend grace to her.”

There is nothing sexy about someone threatening to murder one’s mother. Nevertheless, Crowley finds himself incredibly aroused. He grabs his mate by the loose ends of his knotted cravat and yanks him close. As soon as Aziraphale is at hand, Crowley attacks his mouth with passionate kisses. Shadwell coughs, a flustered sound, and Crowley hears the door to the butler’s pantry swing shut behind him.

Aziraphale cups Crowley’s chin as they part, panting. “Well. I say.”

Crowley kisses him quickly just because he can. “In the interest of my honor, I thank you for the thought. Getting her to leave before we become murderers may be a better choice.”

Aziraphale strokes the side of Crowley’s face and smiles. “That is wise counsel. Perhaps we should amend our plans. It may be best to set off before the rest of the house awakes?”

“Better than digging a hole for the grave,” Crowley agrees as he stands. “She doesn’t even deserve hallowed ground.”

“Steady on now, my dear. Let’s not say anything too incriminating,” he teases.

Aziraphale guides Crowley’s hand to the crook of his elbow and then leads them back toward the stairs. Before they make the turn on the landing, they hear Peggy and Ellen, the youngest housemaids gossiping.

“Johnson was down at the Parsonage yesterday to help. He said Lady Michael is over the moon. She’s paid some local artist to come and paint a mural in the nursery,” one girl says.

The other girl gasps, “Why would she spend that much for a babe that might not be hers?”

“That’s just the thing. She doesn’t know any different.”

“You mean she doesn’t know that Lord Fellthrop rutted her mate?” the second says scandalized.

“Johnson said Lord Sandalphon can’t even look at her.”

“Just like Lady Fellthrop, poor lady. About to birth a pup and to know her own mate might have a bastard by his own brother-in-law.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face flinch through a multitude of micro-expressions. He steps closer and nuzzles Aziraphale’s chin comfortingly.

“And that’s the worst about it. Lady Fellthrop can’t divorce him without exposing the truth of her husband’s affair.”

The second girl grows angry, “That’s not fair!”

The first voice sighs as if she’s comforting the other maid, “That’s the way it is for Omegas. My mam couldn’t get away from my mum. She’d be black and blue, but no rights, you see. Mum could hold her head high and no one judged her.”

Crowley is the one tugged closer for comfort now. Aziraphale kisses his temple.

The second girl’s voice is near tears, “How can we be sure? Maybe it’s just a nasty rumor!”

“I saw them,” the first maid says, her own voice squeaking. “Lord Fellthrop was like an animal. I tried to stop him! I swear I did! Then I went for help but Johnson is just a Beta and he wouldn’t face a rutting Alpha.”

“You should have gotten Lady Michael!”

“What? And have her murder her own brother?”

The second maid’s voice breaks, “That was rape.”

The first maid corrects her, “It would be better if it was. Lord Sandalphon started it.”

“From the pheromones?”

“No, they weren’t anywhere near the family rooms! If they were near Lord Aziraphale and Lord Crowley’s rooms I might have believed it… but this was like… I think they’ve been lovers before.”

There is a clang as one of them lifts a metal bucket and their voices quiet as they walk away from the head of the stairs to some other chore.

“Do you think Lady Fellthrop knew?” is the last thing they can hear.

“Well, she does now,” Crowley says sadly.

Aziraphale starts up the stairs again, his face lined with his distress. “Our family had no connection with Sandalphon’s family before Michael’s marriage. If they’ve been lovers, it’s been since their wedding.”

“As far as I know, it was a one-time thing,” Uriel admits from the shadows of the family wing. “I’m finding that I know very little about my husband’s proclivities.”

She steps out into the light. She looks worn.

“Oh, you poor, dear girl,” Aziraphale comforts, reaching for her hand. “I would have—“

“What, Aziraphale? Left your nest to rip your brother’s throat out?” she gives a humorless laugh and pulls her hand away. “I’d have lost my life just by knocking on your door and suggesting you abandon your mate.”

Crowley’s heart aches for her. He unties one scent cuff. Instead of taking her hand, he reaches around her shoulders and pulls her into a hug. She’s stiff. They’re not friends and it’s apparent. Even still, he lays his uncuffed wrist around her shoulder so she can smell his comfort. It’s like a switch is thrown. Uriel bursts into tears and latches onto her fellow Omega.

“How could he do this?” she cries. “I looked the other way about the girls in London. He’s a man. He has needs, right? My mother told me to just let him have his fun.”

Crowley frowns as Uriel lists off Gabriel’s trysts. What an unfortunate situation to find herself in—yet he had been willing to live such a life just to escape Tophet. Perhaps she knew what she was getting herself into? He guides her down the hall toward her room. Aziraphale shadows them, but several strides behind them.

“Everyone knows,” she sobs. “ _Everyone_ knows.”

“I don’t think that’s true. It’s a family problem. Aziraphale and I are going to deal with my mother.”

Uriel gives another fake laugh, “Gabriel is trying to pay her off. It’s the only deal she understands.”

“He wouldn’t have to if he came clean with his sister. It’s a matter of your privacy though,” Aziraphale inserts.

He might not mean it judgmentally, but Uriel takes it that way. She’s immediately on the defensive.

Uriel wipes her face with her hand. “I’m sure it’s easy for you to say that. Things worked out for you. Everything was fine until this damn house party. He was making those inquiries and suddenly he smells like some Beta whore.”

Crowley feels the need to defend his husband. He begins to argue, “That’s not Aziraphale’s fault—“

“Isn’t it?” she asks pulling away from him. She glares at Crowley, “Your mate needed to prove his dedication to his fucking duty. Gabriel eats that shit up.”

Crowley is taken aback at these words. He’s not entirely sure what his sister-in-law means. Meanwhile, Uriel rounds on Aziraphale.

“He hates you. Do you know that? He hates that you got to run off and play soldier while he was stuck here being the Marquess.”

Aziraphale sniffs, “Yet he’s the one who pushed me toward taking an Omega—“

“As I said, he says that’s your duty. I wanted you to be happy like I was happy. Well, that’s a fucking joke isn’t it?” she growls.

Crowley feels like he’s been dunked in ice water. Their words flow through him and he’s sinking under the weight of their meaning. They’re fighting each other, but he’s the casualty.

Uriel shrieks, “And look what it got us all! You made a connection with the Jayanthonys, who are the lowest scum that anyone ever bred.”

Crowley steps further away from her. Somehow, he speaks in a polite manner, “I hope we can be friends.”

She glares, then her face morphs into an exaggerated happy expression, “What luck!” Her false smile falls away immediately. “I want nothing to do with you or your family. My connection to you is an unfortunate fact in my life, but I will not welcome you in my home any longer than I am forced.”

Crowley stands straight and gives her a polite curtsy, “Worry not, Lady Fellthrop, I will not inconvenience you any longer than I must.”

Then he turns sharply and heads for his room, tying his removed scent cuff back onto his wrist. His cedar scent smells like it is engulfed in a forest fire. Once the cuff is in place, the scent snuffs out like a candle. He’s given up a cage where his every movement was controlled for a more gilded one. At least he was accepted in Tophet, even as an inconvenience. Here he’s a villain.

He hears Aziraphale continue, “My father set a strong example for the proper behavior of a gentleman—“

Uriel shouts in return, “And how to be a perfect Alpha, I know! Take any fucking desperate Omega and breed them!”

“That’s crass!”

Crowley tries to fight through drowning in his uncertainty and panic.What was it Aziraphale said? His brother pushed him to take an Omega? As a _duty_?

“What would your perfect father have to say about your inability to further the line?” Uriel taunts.

“He would remind me that we set the example for those in our care! And marriage is one way to do so—even if the Omega mate will not bear children!” Aziraphale snaps in return.

Crowley strides to his dressing table and glances at his appearance. He’s wearing a day dress and a shawl. His mating mark stands out nearly bloody against his pale skin. Suddenly, he’s nearly ill.

“Such an obedient child,” Uriel jeers. “Marrying the first Omega that meets your brother’s standard like a loyal Herald.”

“My brother would have enticed me to marry anyone able to carry a child, as you know, on the off chance I could breed them!” Aziraphale yells, furious.

“I’d say his standards are low, but I will not disrespect myself that way. Although, his other bedmates do support this—“

“I wouldn’t be too hasty to apply such acclaim to yourself, Lady Fellthrop. My brother chose you because your family seems to only breed Alpha children,” Aziraphale sniffs, bitchily.

Crowley feels like he’s falling into a ravine. Is all this true? He can’t stand to see the bite. He tosses the shawl aside and grabs a black velvet Spencer jacket. Its Empire waist matches the top of the bodice, but he appreciates the simple puff of the sleeves. He buttons it and most of the claiming mark disappears beneath the fabric. Even so, his fingers tremble.

“At least I can breed, hmm?” Uriel insults. “My husband may be disloyal, but at least he can get it up.”

Her door slams and Aziraphale storms down the hall. He flounces past Crowley’s bedroom door to their den in his anger. Confused, Aziraphale exits their den and pushes on Crowley’s ajar door, and enters. The moment he does, he must see Crowley’s expression for his face changes, abashed.

Aziraphale brushes down the velvet of his waistcoat. “Forgive that bit of temper. Did you…” he pauses and winces, chagrined. “hear much of that, my dear?”

Crowley’s hurt is already demanding revenge. Aziraphale’s awkward realization of what his husband has heard, just fans his distress into a rage. He fakes a sharp smile and shoves his sunbonnet on his head.

Ire cuts through his words, “As a sub-standard Omega who _might_ be able to breed Alphas, I suppose I should be glad to be able to hear anything at all. I’m so glad that you accepted your brother’s suggestion to court me as I might reproduce. Shall we go off and see the house that you’re duty-bound to inhabit with your scum Omega as to set a good example?”

Aziraphale inhales and his eyes slide shut, clearly belittling himself for saying those things where Crowley can hear. He opens his eyes and smiles, placatingly.

“My dear, you misunderstand—“

“Do I? You felt the duty to ‘take an Omega’? Your brother forced your hand?” Crowley loops the ribbon under his throat and grabs his gloves. “Uriel seems to believe that you went along with all this because it’s what your late father would have wanted.”

He studies Aziraphale in the mirror, waiting for him to disagree. The Alpha fidgets but doesn’t deny it. This hurts. Crowley shifts his eyes to his own reflection and moves a curl in front of his ear to hide his wedding earring. Then he slides his hands into his gloves. His wedding ring disappears from sight.

“She’s hurt and angry, Crowley,” Aziraphale says while he worries the hem of his waistcoat. “You must understand I was raised that I couldn’t disobey—”

“Were you ‘obeying’ Gabriel to meet me as a potential spouse? Or others?”

“That’s an oversimplification and you know it,” Aziraphale reprimands, with stuffy manners. “I sought to marry for a number of reasons.”

“One of which being the expectation that you should?”

“I’m the Earl of Fellthrop and will be until Gabriel has an Alpha to carry on his line. There are duties to the people of this county and setting an example, yes, is one.”

“Angel, when you say that, it sounds like Uriel might have been right about her house party being a dating game. I was invited here on the pretense of it being a house party. My mother apparently knew otherwise. Your brother vetted me through some early approval process. Uriel even said that he had some sort of rubric I matched up to. Did _you_ know that you were meeting a potential mate?” Crowley asks, his anger simmering.

Aziraphale pats his pockets and finds his reading glasses. He unfolds them and goes to sit by the fireplace with the novel he abandoned there earlier. “Of course I did, my dear. You couldn’t have expected that I would immediately make over any Omega they threw at me. Gabriel knew what I wanted in a potential mate.”

“It sounds like he went shopping for me,” Crowley offers with a hiss.

“There are so many lesser Omegas out there, my dear,” Aziraphale says absently, his eyes already scanning the page. “You understand his need to assure you were worthy.”

The Omega in Crowley paces, confused. Is his mate angry with him? Disappointed? He knows that Aziraphale can talk without thinking when he’s reading. No doubt he didn’t mean his words to be that cruel. But they are and, in light of everything that was just expressed between him and Uriel, Crowley lashes out.

“So everything you said about ‘bad Alphas’ only applies when it doesn’t suit you,” he says with heavy sarcasm.

Aziraphale looks up from his book in confusion. He’s paying attention now. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at.”

Crowley makes a noise of disgust—it’s not a growl, but it could be if Aziraphale pushes him. “You’re just like every other Alpha, angel. You only bend the rules when it suits you.”

“That’s unfair—“

With a swish of his skirts, Crowley strides out of the room.

Aziraphale calls him, but it’s exasperated, “Crowley, wait.”

Crowley ignores him and hurries down the stairs.

Aziraphale roars, full Alpha voice, “Crowley, don’t walk away from me!”

It nearly makes the Omega stop and roll belly up in submission. His anger leaves a dark tang in his mouth. Crowley fights through innate behavior and continues down the steps. Shadwell sees him coming and attends him in the hall. No doubt he’s heard the raised voices.

Crowley could stay and deal with the fallout. Instead, he makes a rash decision.

“Which way to the stable?” he asks the butler.

Shadwell is caught off guard, “Lord Aziraphale requested the gig. I’m not sure it’s ready—“

“Not a problem, I’ll find it myself,” Crowley decides and takes long strides to the front door.

Brian hurries to open it before him. “The stables are to the left, Lord Crowley,” the footman clarifies.

“Thanks,” he says with a lazy wave without looking back.

Aziraphale will be on his heels soon enough. Perhaps Crowley can get a running start now and avoid the punishment that is coming for him. Secretly, he’s afraid. He’s never seen a rebellious Omega treated well by their Alpha. His mother sent his father to war. Lucifer publicly humiliates Blanc. Aziraphale swore he’d never raise a hand to him, but what if his testosterone overruns his promises?

The stables are well stocked and Crowley is surprised to see six horses. A pair is his mothers, but four horses belong at Zionview Grove. Every time Crowley thinks he understands how wealthy the Heralds are, he has to reevaluate.

Glozier the Groom is a late-middle-aged German man. He meets Crowley in the courtyard. He’s brushing down Harry the Rabbit.

“I thought we had some time yet before you and Lord Aziraphale took the gig out, my lord,” he admits.

“Change of plans, actually. Would you saddle Bentley?”

Glozier barks a condescending laugh. “Lord Crowley, you should wait for your Lord Alpha. Bentley is a difficult stallion for the best horseman. Harry the Rabbit is far more gentle—more in your capabilities. And, if you’ll excuse my observation, my lord, you’re not dressed for such exercise—“

“Yeah, don’t really give a shit. Saddle the horse or I’ll do it myself.”

Glozier blanches and hurries to follow directions. Bentley is a huge black stallion. He is not the sort of mount familiar with a side-saddle, but Crowley refuses to back down now. The horse eyes Crowley unimpressed as the Omega approaches him.

“Hello, there,” he greets the horse before making Glozier boost him into the saddle. “I heard you love speed. Let’s see if it’s true.”

The groom seems to be second-guessing this. “Bentley isn’t a good old mare, my lord. He’s barely broken for most riders—“

With an eye roll, Crowley hooks his leg into the saddle, sits tall, straightens his skirt, and takes off like hell itself is chasing him. Pebbles skitter out from under Bentley’s hoofs and the animal shakes his head joyfully, tossing his mane.

“C’mon!” Crowley cheers excitedly, and the horse seems delighted to find a similarly spirited rider.

Bentley stretches out his neck. He flicks one ear back to Crowley as if insuring that the Omega is up for this speed. Crowley sits tall and confident in the saddle and urges him on. They race past the front of Zionview Grove with Crowley’s skirts pulled taut in the wind. He laughs with a loud, free guffaw and spurs Bentley faster.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale yells to him as they shoot past. “Crowley! CROWLEY!”

He doesn’t slow. He doesn’t look back.

He turns Bentley for the open fields and lets him rocket into the distance. The horse chooses its path. Bentley craves speed the same way the Omega does. He gallops across the lawn and onto the road. This isn’t about the destination but pure acceleration and movement.

Bentley slows to a more sustainable pace sometime later and Crowley doesn’t pester him to quicken again. Enjoying such freedom, the horse seems to reward his rider. Bentley turns off the road and takes another field at a sprint. Crowley grins, thrilled.

The sun is on his shoulders, heating the Spencer jacket and the wind rushes at him. The ribbon on his sunbonnet slaps the side of his hat with each pound of Bentley’s hooves.

Then the strangest through occurs to Crowley: this is the very first moment in his life that he has been outside a building and been alone.

It’s freedom.

A whoop builds in his chest and he lets it out. Emboldened, he shouts at the sky. As if he understands the emotion, Bentley stretches out his neck and gives another burst of speed. This is when Crowley realizes that Bentley is looping back toward the stables. His freedom is short-lived, it seems. Even his horse is a chaperone.

Hesitant to end his ride, Crowley pulls the reins and slows the horse. “Easy, boy.”

Bentley’s chest heaves as they slow to a canter and then further down to a trot. Crowley lets the horse guide them home at this pace. As they come closer to the stables, Crowley can hear Aziraphale yelling.

“He’ll be thrown off and killed—for the love of Heaven can you go _any_ faster?”

Glozier is tacking Harry the Rabbit while Aziraphale rails angrily. Crowley rolls his eyes and encourages Bentley to slow further into a walk. The horse raises his head proudly. Crowley pats his neck as they make their way into the stable. Glozier stops his process and stares, openmouthed. Aziraphale, on the other hand, runs toward Bentley.

“Crowley?” he calls. “My dear are you all right? The horse was bolting!”

Crowley shakes his head in disagreement. “I think you misunderstand how to ride a horse then, Aziraphale.”

Bentley snorts at the Alpha and goes to the water trough. Crowley gives him slack reins and the horse drinks deeply.

“You let the horse get out of control then, my dear,” Aziraphale reprimands. “Your emotions are ruling you. Come down now.”

He holds his arms up for Crowley to swing down into. Annoyed, Crowley leans away from him. Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he frowns. Bentley stamps his feet.

Aziraphale’s voice drops low and dangerous, not yet a rumble, but a warning. “Crowley, stop acting like a child and come inside."

Crowley is furious again. He pats Bentley’s neck. The horse snorts into his water and turns his ears back to Crowley. The Omega looks over Azirpahale’s head around the courtyard. The footmen Brian and Wensleydale have joined the groom. They look at Crowley and lean their heads together to gossip.

The breeze carries Brian’s words to him, “My mum used to get my dad so angry when she disobeyed him. I hope Lord Aziraphale doesn’t cane Lord Crowley as his brother did.”

Aziraphale obviously hears this and his face floods with color. The servants are gossiping. Not a good look for the Alpha. Crowley looks away. There is an opening between the horse stalls and a tack house.

“Enough of this. Get down,” Aziraphale orders.

He reaches up and tries to take Crowley by the hips. Incensed, the Omega pulls the reins and wheels Bentley around. The horse is already listening to him. Aziraphale falls back a step.

“Crowley.”

It’s a rumble--just a smidgen shy of an Alpha growl. They’re about to cross a new threshold.

“I’ll help you down,” Aziraphale continues, trying to find a tone between angry Alpha and Army Captain, “just come over here. _Now_.”

Crowley urges Bentley around again. The horse turns a wide circle and shakes his mane. He sees the space between the stalls too. Crowley sits soft and tall in his saddle. Aziraphale’s eyes flash—he’s cavalry, a horseman. He sees Crowley prepare to ride out the moment he decides.

Crowley clicks and Bentley takes off at his favorite speed. With the grace that suggests they’ve ridden together for years, Bentley and Crowley charge across the courtyard again. Crowley doesn’t break perfect posture as Bentley jumps across the water trough and tears through the opening between the buildings like he’s on fire.

Aziraphale is screaming his name and running behind them but Bentley leaves him behind in a dust cloud. Crowley knows that Aziraphale will be on that other horse and after them.

“They’ll never catch us,” he laughs and the horse seems to agree.

With pure athleticism, Crowley rides far. Bentley slows after fifteen or so minutes of hard riding but does not stop. The fields fill with crops, so Crowley guides them to the road. Tenants watch them ride past. Crowley salutes them sardonically. His husband will interrogate them, no doubt as to his direction. Let him.

“How you doing, buddy?” he asks the horse.

Bentley tosses his head and takes a sharp turn through the underbrush next to the road. He’s making his way back toward the stable. Crowley lets him again. The horse has earned his rest and care.

There is a temptation to turn the horse to the road and ride away to the horizon. Crowley can admit that right then in the hot sun. Bentley knows better and huffs at him.

“Right, of course,” Crowley agrees. “No connections. No skills. No money. That wouldn’t be a good look for me.”

Bentley must agree because he carries them through the fields and climbs a hill. Zionview Grove looms and Crowley sighs. Back to the gilded cage, it seems. He slows Bentley. He’d come to this place hoping to just be presented in society. In addition to that, he’d been given a new life.

As he accepted that new position, he learned that people were different than he expected. He was the most disappointed with his family, obviously. He’d known their greed. He’d known their unkindness. Secretly, he’d hoped that his marriage would change their treatment of him.

He shakes his head and laughs, disbelievingly. The past month had been the plot of some novel—not one he’d entirely enjoy reading. His heart pricks with pain. He thought Aziraphale was different. The man’s words had cut deeper than Crowley wanted to admit to himself. Coupled with the angry glint in Aziraphale’s eye back in the stables, Crowley wonders how badly the rest of the day will go. Worse, he begins to doubt.

Was it even really love on the Alpha’s part or just some reaction to pheromones? Aziraphale had already admitted that their marriage was inspired by his desire to please his family, instead of his own interest. He’d offered to take Crowley away from the Dame and Lucifer—was it just another action taken because it “was the right thing to do”?

Bentley curiously ambles past the grand house. Crowley wonders if the horse is supposed to be on these ornamental lawns, but doesn’t care enough to redirect Bentley.

He slips back into his thinking. Did he himself actually love his husband? Was it just sexual attraction mixed with kind words and the desire to escape the Dame’s house? He turns this over in his mind carefully. He remembers Aziraphale holding his umbrella over Ashtoreth and him. He carried that kindness in his heart for months like a shield against his grief and anger.

Aziraphale had been his angel years before they were even able to properly speak. Yes, he loved him. That truth is good to know, even if his mate’s feelings are in question.

Before he’s really ready to return, Bentley walks into the stable courtyard.

Glozier approaches slowly as if afraid that they will take off again.

Crowley tosses the reins to him. “Mind helping me down?”

The Groom offers his arm. Crowley braces on him and swings his leg from around the pommel, then swings down to the footrest and, from there, to the ground.

“Did your Lord Alpha find you?” Glozier worries.

Crowley grunts and walks away without a reply. He might love his husband, but he’s still angry at him. Besides, what if that “fulfilling his duty as an Alpha shit” was really his motivation for this union?

“Thanks, Bentley,” he calls to the horse.

He’s tired and stiff from the idiotic side-saddle. Beelzebub taught him to ride and they’d be proud to see he hadn’t lost his excellent posture in the saddle. It made for tiring exercise.

There is mud across the hem of his skirt where it beat in the wind. The ribbon on his sunbonnet has a run in it. Crowley unknots it and lets it dangle from his hand. He approaches the house and Lord Fellthrop runs to meet him.

“Crowley, thank the Lord! We’ve been so worried—“

“Lay off,” he snaps. “I can ride a horse.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen and he turns his head at an angle while pursing his lips disapprovingly. Crowley doesn’t stop. He passes him. His mother stands behind Lord Fellthrop.

“Really, Crowley,” she admonishes. “Unbecoming behavior—“

“Seriously? From _you_? Fuck off,” he growls and strides into the house.

“Did my brother find you?” Gabriel continues, but Crowley ignores him.

“Shadwell, could you send Eve up and the bathtub?” he asks politely.

The butler is clearly not impressed with his behavior, based on his face, but he nods. Crowley takes the steps two at a time and enters his room. The first thing he does is slam the door between his room and Aziraphale’s den. He slides the bolt and locks the door. He stands there, hand on the lock, panicking. It’s all outward bravado. His Alpha will return and he is already displeased. Will this make him angrier?

Eve knocks on the door and enters. The maids follow her with the bathtub.

She looks at him knowingly, “What did you expect, my lord?”

Crowley rolls his shoulders and adopts a “devil may care” slouch. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She shoos him behind the dressing screen with a gesture. “Don’t play dumb, my lord. It’s not becoming."

Eve helps him undress as the maids pour hot water into the metal tub. He can see from her furrowed brow that if allowed, she will lecture him. Crowley tosses his sunbonnet on the stool of his dressing table and unbuttons his jacket.

“How much did everyone hear?” he asks as she unbuttons his dress.

“Downstairs, you mean?”

He nods as his slip and shift join the dirty dress.

She holds the garments and looks him straight in the face. “Pretty much everything, I think. Lady Fellthrop and Lord Aziraphale were shrieking like alleycats.”

Crowley nods, knowingly and reaches up to undo his hair from its bun. Some have come loose from his ride and it makes him smile. He really did enjoy that ride. Bentley was a one-in-a-million horse.

Eve drops his bathing flannel over his shoulder and hands him his soap. “They said unkind things.”

Crowley shrugs as if it doesn’t ache. “It’s true, right? Just marry an Omega to fill the nursery. You heard them—I was the only one who passed muster but wouldn’t kick up a fuss if his mate was sterile.”

Eve frowns and twists the dresses in her hands. “I’m not sure they meant that, my lord.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at her and tosses the soap up and catches it again, like an apple. “You heard my husband or heard about it anyway. They chose me just in case the doctors were wrong and Aziraphale can carry on his father’s line. I’m a suitable mate because, if the stars align, I can be bred like a sheep.”

“Lord Crowley—“

“No worries, Eve. I’ve got it from here,” he says, sending her away. “Check back in about an hour in case I’ve drowned?”

Despondent, he locks the door behind her. He throws the bath flannel over the chair by the tub and steps into the hot water. He is about to settle in when he hears Aziraphale in the hall.

The doorknob turns. It doesn’t open. Crowley sits down and sighs at the feel of the water. Aziraphale knocks and calls.

“Crowley?”

He ignores him.

He hears Aziraphale enter his den and then try the door that separates their bedrooms. He knocks again, this time more forcibly.

“Crowley, this is unacceptable. Open the door.”

Crowley slings his legs over the edge of the tub and sinks down in the water until his ears are under the surface. It dampens the sound of Aziraphale hammering on the door.

Crowley resurfaces when the knocking stops. His punishment is coming. Might as well be clean for it. He lathers the soap between his hands and sets to scrubbing himself. It feels good to wash away the grime from his skin. His mating mark stings with the lye, but he cleans it anyway. Satisfied, he sets to work on his hair. He’s nearly done rinsing his clean hair of the bubbles when he realizes that he’s alone again.

He lets his shoulders sink under the water again, surprised. At Tophet, he used the tub in the kitchen as was expected of him. Deidre and Cook were always right there behind a blanket strung up across the room. Even his lazy bath here was supervised by his Alpha—this is a new experience.

He can’t soak it in though. Aziraphale stages his next attack on Crowley’s bastion. Crowley hears the key in the lock to his bedroom from the hall.

“No, Aziraphale, do _not_ open that door!” he yells frustrated, as the key clicks.

The doorknob rotates.

“I’m fucking serious. Do not come in here. I’ve never had any privacy in my damn life. You know that. Give me a few goddamn hours to myself for the _first_ time in my life!”

Aziraphale opens the door and strides in, furious. “You think you can behave like a child and then demand to be left alone?”

Crowley stares at him, livid. “Oh, right, so I see how it is. It’s ‘I want you opinionated’ and ‘be yourself’ when it’s easy. The moment that I’m difficult for _you_ to deal with I’m being a child.”

Aziraphale grinds his teeth. “You could have been killed, you fool.”

“I told you, I like to ride fast,” Crowley snaps.

Aziraphale’s scent soaks through his cuffs and Crowley smells burned pears. He slams the door and rounds on his husband. “That wasn’t riding. That was a temper tantrum! You embarrassed me. Worse, you embarrassed yourself and don’t even recognize it!”

Crowley stands up and sloshes water all over the rug. “Really, angel? You want to talk about embarrassing? How about knowing the entire household heard my husband admit loudly that he married me out of a sense of duty. Then, in the middle of a really bad day, I spent time—for the first time in my _entire_ godforsaken life—outside alone!”

Crowley smells the sharp edge of Aziraphale’s surprise. He has no room for sympathy.

“I’ve been a brother and a son, hidden in a bedroom. I’ve been a mate. Now I’d like to be an independent adult. You said I could study. You said I could ride. You said a lot of things—did you really mean them or only mean them when I’m with you?”

Aziraphale is completely flabbergasted. His brow is wrinkled and his lips parted. Crowley can see his indecision in his eyes.

“I want to keep you safe,” he says slowly and softly.

“And I want to _live_. For the first time, I want to make choices that people disapprove of,” and here he laughs. “Hell, I want to make choices. I’ve never been even given the opportunity.”

Aziraphale shakes his head disbelievingly and turns away from his husband. “You sound like a boy trying to be a man.”

“I am.”

At this Aziraphale braces his hands on Crowley’s dressing table.

“Aziraphale, I’ve never done _anything_. Tennis, London, hell, I’ve never even been fit for a real blessed coat. I’ve never done any of it. How is that any different than being a child?”

Aziraphale’s frustration overwhelms his tone, “Making choices does not make us adults.”

Crowley steps out of the bathwater and wraps the bath flannel around him.There is one choice he wants to know about. “I’d believe that, but I heard you say multiple times today that you looked for a mate because it was expected of you. So tell me, did you really want to marry me?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale shouts and finds Crowley’s face in the mirror.

“Really? Because this is who I am. I won’t change just because you find it difficult.”

“I’m not asking you to, Crowley! I’m trying to understand why you acted like that!”

Crowley drips onto the rug. “Did you hear what you even said?”

Aziraphale stands up straight again and worries his hands. “I did say some things that you might have interpreted… incorrectly. Yes, I agreed to the house party out of duty. I married you because—“

“My brother held a gun to your head, Aziraphale. _Literally_. Did you want to marry me? I need to know,” his voice takes on a shiver of desperation.

“Yes, of course, I did,” Aziraphale assures him, but he nearly seems to be convincing himself. “You’re my mate.”

Somehow that isn’t the answer Crowley wants. “Yeah, I know that. That’s different.”

“How is that different, Crowley?”

Crowley twists the flannel so it wraps around his hips. His hands wave in the air wildly, “Mating that’s instinct, right? Like those eleven days—we lost track of time because of our sex drive. That’s one thing. But marriage… that’s a choice.

“We’ve been herded along toward that decision from before we set eyes on one another. Your duty to your family and this party. My mother and brother and their blood money. A fucking pistol! Did you choose me, angel? Really?”

Aziraphale still isn’t facing him. He’s looking into the distance. “And what if I don’t know the answer to that?”

Crowley looks down into the tub of dirty water. He wanted the answer and now he has it. He didn’t expect it to hurt so badly. He wraps his arms across his bare chest and fights back against the sob that tries to wrench out of his throat.

Aziraphale must hear it because he pulls Crowley against his chest. “Do you love me, Crowley?” he asks.

Crowley hides his face in his hands, “I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met.” He hears his mate inhale in surprise. “You were so kind. You stood up for strangers—how could I not love you, angel?”

Aziraphale asks, unhappily, “Did you marry me just to escape the unkindness of Tophet? Did they force you into this?”

Crowley shrugs, still hiding his face, “I was going to have an arranged marriage no matter what. I am lucky that I love my husband and we’re friends.”

Aziraphale releases him and Crowley wipes his face. He’s surprised to find tears on his cheeks.

“You think that I don’t love you,” Aziraphale says, his voice flat.

“I think you love your mate,” Crowley wipes his palms on his bath flannel then swipes at his eyes again. “Gabriel loves his mate but doesn’t love Uriel. And vice versa.”

Aziraphale absorbs that. “And if you’re wrong and I’m in love with you the person?”

“Then why did you burst in here ready to give me a hiding for disobeying you?” Crowley asks, his inner Omega beginning to wince his discomfort.

Aziraphale snarls then forces himself to stop with an embarrassed cough. “You’d…”

“Disobeyed my Alpha, yep,” Crowley agrees, popping the last letter. “But my husband hurt me and I needed to deal with—“

“Then you should have stayed so we could talk about it!”

Crowley’s laugh is hallow. “I was going to yell. I was going to throw things. Then you’d growl and make me submit and there would be no talking at all! You hurt me, Aziraphale.”

“And you didn’t let me explain myself, Crowley. That’s not fair to me!” Aziraphale says frustrated. “I was raised to believe in my duty, as I said. This may have begun as me trying to meet my brother’s expectations, but I met my best friend and my mate.”

Aziraphale holds his hands toward Crowley with his palms up in supplication. “Did I want to marry you? I honestly don’t know, but I don’t regret it, my dear. I meant those vows. I do love you. I want to make a life with you.”

Crowley wants to nuzzle and bear his throat. He wants to roll belly up and beg forgiveness. Instead, he takes Aziraphale’s hands in how own.

“You said once that Alphas make the rules regardless of your opinion,” Aziraphale says carefully. “And I rather reinforced that this morning.”

Crowley finds an ink spot on Aziraphale’s thumb and he stares at it.

“Did you really expect me to come up here and… punish you?” he asks uncomfortably. “I will not raise my hand to you, my dear. I gave you my word.”

The ink stain is blue. “People say a lot of things. Sometimes what they say when they’re angry is closer to the truth.”

Aziraphale shifts. “I lost my temper in the stables. I might have shouted, but I would never hit you.” He sighs then, “You don’t know that though, do you. Not really. I was a soldier and an Alpha. I was already baring my teeth at you after hurting and insulting you. No wonder you ran.”

He rubs his face with one hand. Crowley holds the other one. “I came into this partnership with the intentions of making you my equal. During our honeymoon, I fear that I might have… lost sight of that. Of course, you are an independent adult, my dear. I will help you in any way that I can to meet your goals. If that,” Aziraphale’s voice stalls and he swallows. “If that means you’d like to live apart, I will help you arrange lodging.”

Crowley steps closer to his husband. “What sort of nonsense are you talking about, angel? I’m not going to live separately from you. I _am_ going to make you give that key back to the housekeeper. If I want to have a bath alone, I want to have a bath _alone_.”

With visible emotion, Aziraphale breaks and grabs Crowley’s face in his hands. He surges forward and kisses him desperately. His relief if palatable and Crowley wraps his arms around his mate’s neck.

“Of course. Yes. And ride alone? Would you like that?” Aziraphale asks, brushing kisses across his lips.

Crowley nods, “As fast and as far as I can go. It’s like flying.”

Aziraphale kisses him again as if assuring himself that Crowley hasn’t ridden too fast or far for him.

“Right now, though, take me to bed, angel?”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks concerned.

Crowley shivers and hides his face in his husband’s neck. “I don’t want to be like our brothers and their wives. I want to have a row and then make up. I want to know that I love you enough that an argument won’t end us.”

“Darling, we are nothing like our brothers,” Aziraphale dispels this idea before he swings Crowley up into his arms. “Except that, I hurt you as they’ve hurt you.”

Part of Crowley wants to protest, but he can’t in good faith. Aziraphale’s words hurt. Their damage is real. They build another layer of injury onto a lifetime supply of trauma. The difference is that Aziraphale is apologizing.

“Please forgive me, my love. I made a series of mistakes today. Your love is so good, Crowley. We won’t end over a dispute—but we will if I treat you so callously again.

“My darling, I love you enough to argue with you and come after you when you’re wrong. I hope you love me enough to do the same. You must hold me accountable.”

Crowley must honor his honesty with his own, “I have a temper, Aziraphale, I’m going to say things I don’t mean.”

“I’m trying to live up to the expectations of a dead man, my love. I’ll repeat lies I was told my whole life. Promise me that you’ll help me unlearn them?” Aziraphale asks as he unbolts the lock to their den.

Crowley kisses him. “Yes. Teach me to hold my tongue?”

“Absolutely not,” he replies, kicking the door shut. “It’s who you are. You have a silver tongue. The Serpent of Eden couldn’t hold a candle to your words. I was wrong, my darling, I want your fiery nature. I want you to push my boundaries.”

He lays Crowley in their nest, then locks the door to the hall and pushes a chair under the door between their rooms.

“We need to add a lock to this side,” Crowley decides.

“It would make things far easier.” Aziraphale sits on the edge of the mattress and watches Crowley. Judging by his expression, they’re not finished talking. He seems to be gathering his thoughts.

“I promised to take you away when you asked me to,” he reminds his mate. “I also promised to court you that day. I think we lost the plot somewhere along the way.”

Crowley takes his hand again. “That’s not entirely our fault. That would mostly be our families. Mine, mainly.”

“I promised you a picnic. I’ve never taken you.”

“Are you asking me on a date, angel?”

Aziraphale smiles indulgently. “I suppose I am. Would you join me tomorrow on a picnic, Lord Crowley?”

Crowley raises his husband’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles just as he did the day he was presented in society. “Maybe we could take one to Zionview Cottage? I rather ruined our planned outing.”

“Nothing is ruined, my dear boy. We have time.”

Crowley sits up and bends his knees. These he rests against Aziraphale’s back and braces himself on his hands. “I’m not sure that’s true. If I were Uriel, I would kick everyone out of my house. She blames us for your brother’s infidelity. There’s a target on our backs.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and leans back into Crowley’s legs. “What a mess. How could he do that?”

Crowley doesn’t try to answer his husband. Instead, he prods Aziraphale into their nest and climbs, naked, into his clothed lap. Aziraphale pulls a blanket around Crowley’s damp body. They face one another with the daylight spilling into the room.

“You go too fast for my comfort, Crowley,” Aziraphale says finally. “If you insist on riding Bentley at that speed, you must use a real saddle.”

“I will if you insist. I’ve never ridden astride,” Crowley acquiesces, but with a frown. This expression morphs, as he thinks back to the ride, “It was amazing, angel. I’ve never been alone like that before.”

“You’ve been accompanied everywhere?” Aziraphale asks touching his cheekbone and then his hair.

“Except my bedroom at night,” Crowley muses. “Even then, I shared with Ash for most of my life.”

“Your first time unescorted in the sunlight and I was shouting at you,” Aziraphale laments.

Crowley touches his lips. “Nothing worth feeling guilty about. I stormed out of here without hearing you out. We were both in the wrong.”

Aziraphale kisses the pads of Crowley’s fingers. “Just so.”

“I’m sorry, angel. Look at me I’m apologizing,” he starts, but Aziraphale cups his face and kisses him demandingly.

“I don’t want you to apologize. I want us to learn from this,” he clarifies and kisses Crowley again.

“Like how good the make up sex can be?” he teases, then groans as Aziraphale begins to kiss down his throat.

“Perhaps, or maybe we could just lay here and make out like boys in a hayloft.”

Crowley chuckles and licks at the shell of his mate’s ear. “Have some experience in that, do you?”

“One of our tenant’s sons and I used to when I was a lad,” he admits as he sucks Crowley’s lower lip into his mouth. “Used to get the hay in our hair.”

Crowley strokes his hands under his husband’s waistcoat, touching his shirt-clad chest. “Sounds smelly.”

He kisses Aziraphale deeply then, balling his fists in the fabric. Aziraphale sighs and kisses him back.

“Maybe you could convert me,” Crowley whispers between kisses. “I’ve never been kissed in a hayloft.”

Aziraphale works his hands into Crowley’s hair and deepens the next kiss. It’s slow and enjoyable. There is no rush. Aziraphale’s hands are starting to touch more and more of Crowley’s bare skin.

“I suppose I could punish you like this,” the Alpha admits with another kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “But I’m not sure you’re supposed to enjoy it."

Crowley is getting short of breath when his purr starts, surprising him. An hour ago, he wouldn’t have thought he was too hurt and too angry to purr around his husband ever again. Aziraphale sits back, equally surprised.

“I’m so sorry, angel.”

“I forgive you, my darling. I’m not sure I’m worthy of your forgiveness though, Crowley. I said terrible things—I believed them so long. You’ve shattered so many of my misconceptions. I will make it up to you, I will.”

Crowley searches Aziraphale’s face. “You know that you hurt me.”

“I do. I denied the very nature of what we are to one another just to fight with Uriel. You are my most treasured mate. More than that—you’re my best friend, Crowley. I will apologize for my behavior everyday until I’ve made amends.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are heartbroken. He is aware of just how damaged his husband is. It should embarrass Crowley, but he's glad it's no secret. It would be too much to shoulder alone after all these years. Crowley lays his forehead on Aziraphale’s clothed shoulder. “We’re on our own side, angel. If you are willing to fight for that, then it’ll be enough.”

Aziraphale rests his cheek on top of Crowley’s hair. “Our side, where we are equals.”

They stay there, wrapped up and quiet for hours. During this solace, Crowley considers the dynamics that they’ve just arranged. Perhaps they were forced into marrying the other, but from that moment on, no one else is going to define what that looks like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- HOLY. CRAP. This week has been insane.   
> \- This story has become wilder than those "real life" reality TV shows/soap operas where everyone's sleeping with their long-long-twin-brother's-roommate-who-just-woke-from-a-coma. This is not how I plotted it, seriously.   
> \- So logic demands that, based on the rules of these universes, a rut would more likely result in rape, but I can't handle writing that shit. Clearly, Sandalphon is a jerk in canon, but nobody deserves that. Plus, since we're seeing so much of Crowley's struggles with autonomy, it seems like other Omegas would do similar soul searching. SOOO what if Gabriel and Sandalphon wanted a one-night stand? Omegas would lack any rights to do so, but Sandalphon should have the right to make a bad decision. (This is why I'm the author.).  
> \- Side-saddle riding was supposed to be more "demure" and prove that the rider was a virgin. (No idea. People are weird.) It's also a serious art. I find horses terrifying, so the whole concept of only riding with your legs hanging over a pommel is like the wildest thing to me. Kudos to you riders out there.   
> \- Obviously, I'm trying to work conversations from canon into this, like every other AU I've ever written. I simply could not do that whole "Bandstand scene"... It kills me to watch every time. Aziraphale is so determined to be a "good angel" that he'll deny his own happiness. Then it's all for what? And poor Crowley just takes it, then comes back for more. So anyway, no "I don't even like you!" nonsense because my poor heart can't take it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty friends! Buckle up! Here's over 13,000 words. Enjoy.

The gig bumps along the path the leaves the front of Zionview Grove. The terraced formal gardens require constant maintenance and the many garden carts have left ruts in the road. Aziraphale tries to guide Harry the Rabbit away from the long wheel furrows. Despite his best efforts, their own wheels regularly seem to find these tracks.

Crowley is quiet beside him, no matter how many conversations he tries to start. His mate answers everything in short statements or single words. He’s not trying to be rude, Aziraphale knows. It’s apparent in the way he observes the passing landscape with a painter’s eye—looking for beauty in the mundane. This is the solace he must find as Crowley woke in this strange mood.

Aziraphale watched him stretch and blink awake this morning, as he himself read. Crowley would usually stumble out of their nest, attend to the chamber pot and fire, then return to their piles of blankets to snooze. This morning, however, he held very still and asked permission to get up. He questioned every action since.

Aziraphale has to keep himself from tightening his hold on the reins in his frustration. He’s sure that Crowley’s fit of rebellion yesterday was years in the making, but possibly the first he’d ever staged. The taste of independence prompted him to want more yesterday. Today, he seems worried that he’d overstepped. He’s demure and reserved as if playing a role—or, worse still as if he is the only one of them who needs to make amends.

And Aziraphale can only blame himself. His mate reverted to his previous patterns of behavior after his thoughtless words. Words that, while he might blame his upbringing, he’s beginning to wonder if he actually has internalized.

Aziraphale nervously rubs his thumb on the leather. He’d always hated the bias toward Omegas or the dogma about Alpha superiority. The thought that he might have accepted some of it unconsciously and used it to hurt Crowley is abhorrent.

Apprehensively, Aziraphale lets his nerves run his mouth. “Harry the Rabbit may hate the gig, but he will ensure we make excellent time.”

Crowley adjusts the way he is sitting so that Aziraphale can see his answering smile. His wedding earring sparkles in the sunlight, even as his husband squints into the brightness.

The gig has no cover, so the only thing protecting Crowley’s delicate, pale skin is his sunbonnet and shawl. His family has denied him access to a parasol, a rudimentary tool. Aziraphale reprimands himself again for not going into town directly and purchasing the items his husband needs. He’d promised Crowley he’d provide for his needs and his wants—so far he’s only covered the latter. He decides to remedy this immediately. They’ll stop in the village and outfit him. First, they must make their way down the drives of the estate.

The wide grazing area—the park— is green and lush with rolling hills. Sheep run from the gig as they hear it come up the path toward them. The drive will take them around the park in a winding route then out to the main road and into the village.

“Zionview Grove estate is miles wide. You can see the ha-ha,” he says, pointing out the ridiculously-named trench and stone wall combination that keeps the sheep from getting too close to the house. “My brother had Brown himself come out for the landscaping. He tore down some old out-buildings for this park.”

Crowley looks in the direction that his husband directs. Beyond the carefully curated lawns are three large ponds, then, beyond that the “wilderness”. These cultivated spaces were designed to look untamed and Brown had done an extraordinary job with Zionview Grove.

“There are some lovely walks through there,” Aziraphale comments. “Benches to sit on, vistas to enjoy. We could go for a wander sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Crowley replies.

His tone is even but subdued. Aziraphale swallows convulsively. He could horsewhip himself for this behavior the day before. Any sensible person would have walked away from Uriel in that state. She was lashing out like a wounded, cornered animal. Instead, he’d stayed and possibly ruined the best thing he’d ever found.

Crowley turns back to look out his side of the gig and stares into the distant tree line. The sun dapples Crowley’s dress and shoulder. Aziraphale stares. His husband is a beauty. He’s also a smart man, including an emotional intelligence that Aziraphale did not expect from someone so removed from society. Crowley’s questions about the nature of their relationship, for example, kept him up most of the night.

Did he want to be married? Did he let himself be forced into an arranged marriage? Did he let his sex drive override his rational mind to the point that he lost sight of his scruples?

The long hours lying awake were worth the assurance he has this morning. He wants to be married to Crowley, but he does not want the sort of marriage his family expects from him. Those end in anger and adultery. He was hoping to share his findings with Crowley this morning. The change in the Omega’s demeanor however has made it difficult.

The drive bends and the sun hits them at a different angle. Crowley ducks his head to avoid looking into the brightness. He pats his skirts, frowns as he remembers there are no pockets, and sits back.

“Do you need something, my dear?”

“I’ve left my sunglasses in our den. My eyes are a bit sensitive today.”

Aziraphale slows Harry the Rabbit. “Should we return—“

“No need, angel. I’ll be all right. My eyes just get tired in bright light sometimes. I didn’t have them during my ride yesterday. My fault, really.”

Aziraphale considers returning anyway, then offers a solution, “We could stop in town. We’ll be riding right through its center anyway. Pick those up… a parasol for you? I know you need other things. I’d be happy to help you order or collect them.”

“I don’t need anything,” Crowley begins to argue, but Aziraphale passes the reins into one hand and holds the other up to stop him.

“You do need things. Some might seem superfluous, but I want you to have them, even if you only need them occasionally. An extra pair of sunglasses is a necessity,” he argues.

Crowley seems to weigh the argument then decides to let it go. He squints ahead of them at the path. Trees hem in all sides and block the sun, so Crowley relaxes his face.

“If we go shopping,” he begins, and Aziraphale nearly crows with victory as it’s the first time Crowley has continued a conversation all day, “we have nowhere to put the packages.”

“No matter. We can order them and have them delivered later. We can head on to the Cottage.”

“I thought you said Zionview Cottage is practically empty? Wouldn’t it make more sense to inventory there first, then shop in town?” Crowley asks, tipping his head back to see his husband.

Aziraphale considers this. “I’m not sure we will find what we need in Tadfield, to be honest. There’s no furniture market here. If I understand correctly, Lord Harmony’s debts were extensive and the liens were satisfied. If the agent is correct, there is very little left in the house.”

Crowley picks at the hem of his glove. “So he let the Cottage unfurnished? That’s unusual.”

“Indeed, which is why the agent was so flustered when we sent him to review it after I returned home from the war. According to the agent, many of the items from the Cottage’s inventory are missing,” Aziraphale admits with a frustrated wiggle. “Art, furniture, even window dressings were in the Cottage when he leased it. Neither hide nor hair of them now.”

“So you moved home with your brother, as the Cottage was uninhabitable.”

“That’s the answer my sister gives publicly. In all truth, I was incapable of anything else. I could barely manage the stairs on my own. I was slow to heal. More depressed than anything else, I think.”

Crowley looks down at Aziraphale’s leg, “From your injury? I haven’t even seen you limp. And that’s impressive—you’ve carried me all around the house.”

Aziraphale pats the thigh where the bullet entered and the horse once fell. “Far less impressive, I assure you, than the man with broken rips carrying my dead weight up two flights of stairs.”

Crowley blushes prettily, then shifts in embarrassment. Aziraphale takes pity on him and continues.

“In answer to your question, no. I was far more depressed about my inability to be a father. I have always wanted children. My siblings knew this. They tried to distract me. Gabriel wanted the Cottage to be some sort of carrot for my recovery.” And here, Aziraphale must make a decision. If he continues with this line of thought, he will completely show his hand. He fidgets with the reins.

“Michael convinced me to pursue a match. She believed, as our father did, that Alphas were incomplete without their mate—she knew I would be happier wed. I saw how content she was and how Uriel and Gabriel were in the beginning. It was bewitching. Gabriel was very clear from the beginning with any interested parties: I would never provide children. I’m sure you’ve inferred that your family was the only one to reply favorably.”

Crowley sighs and rubs his throat with his gloved fingertips. Aziraphale takes a steadying breath.

“I have never believed that there is one single mate for anyone. I was never so glad to be wrong in all my days. Our attachment and our marriage is the only one which could have ever made me happy, Crowley. You are my best friend and my husband. I do so love you so very much.”

Crowley’s hand stills and he stares at Aziraphale. “You… mean it?”

“And I intend to prove it, my dear. First, by telling you of my stupidity.”

Crowley makes a strangled noise but does not stop Aziraphale from speaking.

“My siblings and I were convinced from a young age that having a mate meant caring for an Omega in every way—so there was no responsibility for you. My father would have said that it was my job as an Alpha to remove unnecessary stress from my mate—even something so small as furnishing the Cottage. I accepted his word as law, yet how I ever believed that cockamamy story, I’ll never know."

“Angel,” Crowley says, his tone indulgent, but amused, “we’re talking about buying a new credenza, not dismantling the patriarchal bias you may have developed.”

Aziraphale shifts to face him better. It’s important that Crowley see how serious he is about this topic, “Don’t you see, my love? I would have had the whole household done just so you wouldn’t be inconvenienced!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, with a touch of reprimand in his tone, “I think we’ve both seen how you like to care for me. If you’d done that, it would have been in the same vein.”

The Alpha shakes his head vigorously. “But that’s what I must unlearn. You’re able to do things. You want to do things—but you’ve never been allowed to have an opinion.”

“My family would strongly disagree with that; they’d say I have too much of one.”

“Your family, forgive me, my dear, are prats.”

Crowley snickers and gives a wide grin. “Just so, angel.”

Aziraphale takes his hand and rubs his thumb across Crowley’s glove. “Yesterday, you said that you want opportunities to make decisions. Where we live and how we live are within that. I had assumed we’d move to Zionview Cottage, but we have other options.”

Crowley squeezes his fingers. “What are you suggesting? Following the social calendar— spring in London, summer at the ocean, fall with assorted connections, and winter at the Cottage?”

“If you’d like, we could try.”

“You’d hate that. You need your books and your pipe, angel. I wouldn’t do that to you,” Crowley argues.

“But I would do that _for_ you,” Aziraphale replies, lifting his hand to kiss. “If you’d like to try.”

Crowley seems content to consider this, then scoots closer and presses his body along Aziraphale’s. “Tell me about the Cottage. What has been done about recovering the stolen goods?”

“I’d need to follow up with the agent, but last I heard, the items were being tracked down as the creditors were not interested in a lawsuit,” Aziraphale says. “We should stop in on him this week and see if a solution has been reached. Even a cheque could be helpful if the items cannot be retrieved.”

Crowley nods in agreement. “What is the house like?”

Aziraphale frowns. “You know, I can’t remember. When my great aunt lived there, she had a grand pianoforte in the entrance. It was too large for the house and I believe that was the only place it would fit at all; it was nearly impassable without brushing against the instrument. She abhorred children and did not want us anywhere near it.”

Crowley chuckles. “What became of the instrument?”

Aziraphale makes a noise, “I’m unsure of the particulars. It may have well been in the Cottage at the time of Lord Harmony’s rental. I hadn’t darkened Zionview Cottage’s door in nearly ten years.”

“I’ve always wanted to play one. If it was sold, I would like to fight to get it back,” Crowley admits.

“If you want it, you shall have it, my love.”

Crowley’s purr fills the air and Aziraphale can’t help but turn to his husband in delight. Whatever expression he showers Crowley in startles the Omega and a deep blush spreads over his cheeks, ears, and neck. The purr abruptly ends to the Alpha’s disappointment.

Harry the Rabbit accelerates as he reaches the end of the lane as if he’s excited to go to town. The gig rolls through the stone gate posts, but Crowley turns in his seat to examine the statues there. Aziraphale slows them to a stop.

“My grandfather had them commissioned,” he admits, uncomfortably. “They’re supposed to be angels.”

The beasts’ torsos begin at the top of each post. They have four heads each: a man, an ox, an eagle, and a lion. They have no pupils, just marble eyes that stare angrily out at the road.

“They gave me nightmares as a child. They’re Biblical if my grandfather was to believed.”

Crowley rests his arms across the back of the seat to allow him a better viewpoint. “I take it that your grandfather was into the Bible allusions then?”

Aziraphale huffs, “You could say that. They became very, erm, focused on the desire to make our last name mean something. Hence all the Biblically-based Christian names.”

Crowley turns back in his seat and Aziraphale coaxes Harry the Rabbit into a walk. The path widens as it joins the main road.

“So when I call you ‘angel’, is that a bit too on the nose? I can stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale says without heat. “It’s the first time I’ve ever enjoyed the association.”

Crowley adjusts his shawl and Aziraphale reaches over to help. It earns him a soft, content purr.

“You make me so happy, you know?” he asks and Crowley’s purr pauses abruptly, only to return at a louder volume.

“Even when I’m being a git?” he scoffs.

Aziraphale pats his knee. “Even then.”

Crowley looks at him disbelievingly, but Aziraphale doesn’t react. They come upon a row of blond, stone houses. Each door is arched and painted a bright blue. An Omega is outside hanging clothes on the line. She curtsies with a laundry peg in her mouth, then swats at her son to bow. Aziraphale tips his hat at them. Crowley starts to wave, then rethinks the gesture and inclines his head instead.

Houses are more common now. They have to slow to allow a flock of scavenging geese to cross the road. As they do, Aziraphale nods ahead of them at a wattle and daub cottage. It has a peaked roof on one side that is broken up by a large chimney. A pair of hip roof dormer windows break out of the long stretch of clay shingles.

“That’s the Parsonage,” he says as they draw closer.

“I see no evil slug infestation,” Crowley muses as they study the trimmed shrubs. “I suppose Sandalphon convinced Brother Francis to take Sister Snail in hand.”

Aziraphale has no idea what his husband is talking about. “Well, um, yes. Just so.”

Once past the house, the road divides and they head left into town. The main street begins with St. Matthew’s church. It’s a 13th century building made of gray stone with red clay roof tiles. Crowley studies the simple bell tower.

“I had wanted us to be married there,” Aziraphale confesses as they roll past the headstones and hedge screen.

“We still could, if you’d like?”

“I think you’d look a little silly with two wedding earrings,” Aziraphale says wiggling so his hip bumps Crowley’s.

“I’m sure someone must, right? If one spouse dies?” Crowley asks, his brow knitting. “Perhaps they do the other ear? But where does the bite go?”

Aziraphale doesn’t have the heart to tell him that most Omegas in such a condition die of grief. Just then, the Dowager House comes into view. He considers his own mother and forces himself to evaluate.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I think I’ve just found another element to my own bias.”

Crowley grins at him then leans more of his weight against him. Aziraphale considers this, then slides his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and holds him there. Within moments, however, he has to release him again. He pulls Harry the Rabbit to a stop alongside the pavement and latches the break. He swings one leg down onto the step and levers himself down. He stands by the wheel and offers his hand to Crowley.

Crowley takes it, holds up his skirts carefully, then steps down. Aziraphale considers his skirts, then grabs Crowley by the waist and swings him down to the ground. Crowley laughs brightly, then suddenly blanches and looks at his feet.

Aziraphale’s heart stutters. He slips his glove off and tucks two fingers under Crowley’s chin. He raises his face.

“You, sir, are very charming. Do not hide that under society’s expectations.”

Crowley shakes his head a fraction and presses his lips together. “I don’t want to be the source of gossip about you—more than I already am. Angel, when we go into these shops, they’ll know you married me in a hurry. At least I can be the modest Omega that people expect you to have married.”

Aziraphale is a little taken aback. “My dear? What do you mean? Is this about yesterday?”

Crowley scuffs the toe of his boot, “Somewhat. I was out of line and you’ve been so… accommodating.”

“Accomoda—what? Crowley, I meant what I said. I was wrong yesterday to demand you act a certain way. I want you to be your own man and to make your own choices.”

Crowley grabs his hands and squeezes them, “And I want that too. Just knowing you’ll allow it is more than I could have hoped for. But, angel, we need to think about the,” he fidgets here, almost as if he’s going to fling his arms about, but forces himself not to, “the way certain scandal is going to affect us.”

“You mean our families’ actions?” Aziraphale asks slowly. “Darling, we are not responsible for them.”

Crowley looks him directly in the face and raises one eyebrow, “Yet we will have limitations put on us for their decisions. Angel, do you have an occupation?”

Aziraphale waves this away, “My military career has provided me with funds for—“

“No, you misunderstand me. I know you have a pension. I also know that the Heralds have some fortune, but what if that is dependent upon your brother’s business? That will dry up if the news comes out.”

Aziraphale nods, “I’ve thought of that. Much of the estate is funded by the renters. The homes will be self-sustaining.”

Crowley looks at him, his eyes clever and sharp, “Unless Gabriel has to sell.”

It strikes Aziraphale deeply. The concept of breaking up the estate in any portion is reprehensible. “He wouldn’t,” he whispers, but then begins to think of the situations. All it would take is a poor harvest and slowing of business and Zionview Grove could be in true danger.

“He’d sell the Cottage first,” Crowley suggests. “The Soho House, your Bookshop, I mean, he’d keep for his time in Parliament. It’s cheaper than letting a townhouse.”

It’s true, Aziraphale admits, turning them so they can walk abreast. Crowley slides his hand into Aziraphale’s elbow habitually but continues to talk in a low voice.

“He’d keep the Parsonage. It’s expected for the vicar—especially if his dalliance becomes known. We’d be out on the street.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Aziraphale growls.

“I know you won’t. You promised to take care of me and you haven’t done anything but—“

Aziraphale frowns, “You’re saying that you’ll playact in public to ensure we have connections. My darling, that is not caring for you. That is forcing you into a box where you should never have been put, to begin with.”

Crowley slows their pace and takes Aziraphale’s free hand in his own. “You promised to take care of me. You promised that we are one being. I did not get to make you any promises, but I’m doing so now. Angel, Aziraphale, I will be your helpmeet.

“I’m not educated and my family needs a number on the way I see the world. I want to unlearn it—but I also want to know how to use it so we can be safe. You need a career and you need to be successful at it. If I need to be shy and modest to make that happen, I will.”

Aziraphale wishes they were having this conversation in their den. He needs to pace and growl. He needs to coddle and kiss Crowley. How long has he been worrying over this?

He lets his voice drop into a soft, Alpha rumble, “This isn’t the sort of thing you need to fret over. I promised that I would take care of you—“

Crowley releases his hand and places those fingers over his husband’s mouth. “You also just told me that you realized that you’d been groomed to take away my independence and self-determination. You said you now knew that was wrong.”

Chastised, Aziraphale nods against his husband’s hand. He kisses the gloved fingers that rest against his lips.

“Let me test my theory while we shop today. If it goes poorly, you can tell me how right you were for the entire ride to the Cottage.”

Aziraphale chuckles and kisses Crowley’s fingers again, then directs them toward the shop being discussed, “As you wish. However, the ride is not very long yet. I may require additional gloating time if I am proved very correct.”

Crowley presses into his left side as they walk to “Virtuous Goods”. He makes a wounded sound.

“My brother made a scene here.”

Aziraphale resists the urge to growl at Lucifer’s mention. Instead, he says, “Mr. Virtue is a good man. He will not draw attention to your brother’s faux pas.”

He holds open the door for his mate and they slip into the busy shop. A group of young Alpha women stand around the ribbons, each tugging a different length of fabric down to inspect. A married couple examines a rug mounted on the wall and squabble over the size they’ll need. A young boy runs by their legs.

Aziraphale casts about until he sees Mrs. Virtue on the back of the shop. She’s sitting down with a shawl draped across her.

“Mrs. Virtue,” he calls as he guides Crowley toward her.

She looks up at him and begins to speak, but Crowley interrupts.

“Please don’t hurry. My husband forgets that little ones do not eat on the same schedules as us,” he says with a smile.

At first, Aziraphale is confused. As he looks at Mrs. Virtue, however, he becomes embarrassed. The shawl hides her nursing child from the larger room.

“If given the chance, my lord,” Mrs. Virtue teases, “she would eat every second of the day.”

“How old is she?” Crowley asks, his eyes jumping between the lump under the shawl and Mrs. Virtue’s face.

“Just about three months,” she answers. “Oh! Oh my! Whatever happened to your eye, sir?”

Crowley blushes furiously and raises his gloved hand to cover his black eye. He ducks his head. The Alpha feels a low growl beginning at his mate’s discomfort. He clears his throat to dismiss the noise.

Aziraphale tries for a gentle tone, “Forgive us, Mrs. Virtue, could we trouble you for some assistance. I’d like my new husband to have some nice things to celebrate our union.”

Clearly recognizing her misstep, she directs her next words to Crowley. “Congratulations! I hope you’re both very happy.”

Crowley has not moved his hand, nor straightened up. Aziraphale pulls him closer by his arm.

“Thank you, dear lady,” Aziraphale argues. “Lord Crowley and I were just wed. We’ve come to sort out some particulars before we begin to set up house at Zionview Cottage.”

“Of course,” she agrees, happy to put her gaffe behind her. “I’m a bit ‘previously engaged’ with Emily, but I’ll get John over to help in just a moment.”

“We do thank you. We’ll browse—might you direct us toward the tinned eyeglasses?”

She casts her eyes around the store and squints as she thinks. “I believe those are in the back. Mr. Virtue will be out shortly. He’s dragging rugs out from the storeroom.”

“Of course. Perhaps we’ll begin with the parasols instead.”

Crowley follows, if not obediently then willingly. He leans against his mate. If he wasn’t wearing a sunbonnet, Aziraphale is fairly certain that Crowley would be nuzzling him. He lowers his head to Crowley’s ear and offers a loving chuff. Crowley seems to melt against him further. It seems that his offer to playact as a shy and modest Omega might have been more about saving face. It seems he’s more introverted than Aziraphale had noticed.

The front of the shop is busier than before. Aziraphale guides them around several other patrons to reach the parasols. Most of the sunshades are shades of pink, but this doesn’t seem to bother Crowley. He lifts them carefully and studies each one. Any that have tassels are discarded with a sniff. He finally settles on a pink silk number with a green interior and long handle that allows it to double as a walking stick. Aziraphale fingers the metal loop at the ferrule.

“Whatever is this for?”

Crowley grins, knowingly. He sets the bottom of the handle on the floor, then hooks his little finger through the loop. “It’s to carry it by, angel.”

Aziraphale rears back. “That’s ridiculous. Why not hold the handle and place the ferrule on the ground?”

It’s Crowley’s turn to react. “It would fall open.”

He turns the parasol as his husband described and, as expected, it opens. Aziraphale frowns.

“My umbrellas have a catch to secure them. Surely the same technology could be employed.”

Crowley grins and chuckles. “You should design such a thing. Omegas and ladies everywhere will cheer.”

Aziraphale sniffs and glares at the ferrule hoop. “Perhaps I shall. Now, my dear, shall we sort out some finer quality nightshirts for you?”

Crowley stalls, his eyes drawn to the wall. Aziraphale waits for him to express himself, but such does not seem to be forthcoming.

“What is it, my dear?”

Crowley blushes and fidgets with his new parasol. “It’s something Eve said while you were gone. It seems,” he clears his throat nervously, “I lack many of the basics that are expected for me to have.”

Aziraphale nearly sighs with relief. At last, Crowley is asking for what he wants. “Indeed?” he hedges. “What would she suggest?”

“She asked me where my fan and reticule were. I have neither.”

Aziraphale tucks his hand back into his elbow. “Then we shall acquire them. Perhaps you also need some new gloves?”

They’re closest to this wall, after all. Crowley doesn’t answer so Aziraphale takes them near these. They come in every length, shade, and fabric. Mr. John Virtue approaches them, looking winded.

“Lord Aziraphale, I offer you many happy days. Congratulations!”

“Thank you, Mr. Virtue. This is my husband, Lord Crowley,” he introduces.

Crowley offers a slight bow, which is mostly shoulder and head inclination. It makes Aziraphale smile with pleasure. He may have never been introduced to society, but he knows all its graces.

Mr. Virtue bows lower and then waves them closer to the gloves. “Can I show you another size?”

Crowley clears his throat hesitantly, “I could use another short pair.”

Mr. Virtue eyes Crowley’s hands knowingly then reaches for a cotton pair. Aziraphale discreetly shakes his head and the merchant adjusts his aim for the kid leather instead. He selects two pairs and offers them to the Omega. One pair is a simply bleached tan, but the other is white with delicate black and green filigree along the bottom of the palm hem and across the back of the hand. Crowley’s hand hovers over the second pair, unsure.

It makes Aziraphale sad, once more. “You should try those on, my love. Allow me to hold your gloves.”

Crowley slides his current pair free of his hands and gives them to his husband. The new gloves are still a little tight on Crowley’s hands and the leather gives a squeak when he makes fists. His long fingers look delicate and lovely.

“I’d like these,” he says, before looking up ate Aziraphale for confirmation.

“If you’d box these up, please. We’ll need some things sent up to the Grove for us,” Aziraphale answers.

And so it goes as they work their way through a list that Aziraphale has carefully crafted. Crowley always has a preference for his items. He likes details, often floral or delicate patterns. He also enjoys fine things but has never had them before. Each time Aziraphale guides him away from the lesser quality, he quiets. Money is clearly a worry for him, but there might be a degree of inferiority complete too. Selecting a fan nearly undoes the Omega.

A brisé fan in the quality that Crowley’s rank deserves is a dear price. Each panel is a separate piece of ivory cut and inlaid with paint. Crowley is absolutely unmoving in his opinion.

“Angel, no. It’s too much. I’ll do just fine with this one,” he argues, holding up a wooden fan. Blue ribbon holds each panel to the next.

Aziraphale is a touch frustrated. His mate deserves the finest things in life, but Crowley is determined to dissuade him.

“I’ll use it at parties? Balls? Right? That’s not terribly often. And I’ve done without one for so long. This is enough.”

It’s the only fight he puts up, so Aziraphale eventually gives in. His new shawl, purse, coin purse, hats, slippers, scent cuffs, and undergarments, however, he will not give on. Crowley has never had a shift with fine weaving. His nightshirts are scratchy cotton or linen. Somewhere, deep inside, Aziraphale’s Alpha nature growls with pleasure as silks and hand-milled fabrics are loaded into the box to go for Crowley.

Mrs. Virtue appears then. Emily, the infant, is sobbing into her shoulder. Crowley stretches to see the child’s face.

“She’s got a head of hair,” he comments. “And strong lungs. What’s made you so unhappy, poppet?”

“Indeed she does,” Mr. Virtue says with a sigh. “Especially in the middle of the night. Oh, Lord Aziraphale, we have a new set of snuff boxes that have just come in. Perhaps you’d like to see?”

Aziraphale hesitates, but Crowley waves him away. “I’m fine. I need to ask Mrs. Virtue about something anyway.”

Aziraphale wonders at this as he allows John to show him the new silver snuffboxes. Mrs. Virtue is no Omega. What could a Beta help his husband with? He glances about the shop to see Crowley and Mrs. Virtue deep in discussion, even as the infant continues to wail.

“Here we are!” Mr. Virtue says, drawing his attention back.

The snuffboxes are beautiful, of course. There are several with in-laid images of the fox hunt or landscapes. He turns them all over in his hand and studies the tortoiseshell. Nothing is worth adding to his collection, however.

“Thank you anyway,” he says and turns to speak to his husband.

Crowley is holding Emily, her tiny head cradled in his gloved hand. He’s swaying with her even as she cries. Aziraphale feels like all the air in the world has been punched out of his chest. The sun shines in the window like a square and lands on Crowley’s long skirt. It catches the curl of red hair that dangles below his sunbonnet. The moment is etched in Aziraphale’s memory.

Crowley is obvious to Aziraphale’s longing gaze. He tilts his head as Mrs. Virtue holds up a lavender silk negligee in one hand and a lacy red number in the other. Crowley looks between them both before nodding to the purple one. Mrs. Virtue holds up its matching dressing gown and Crowley nods in agreement. Aziraphale can only swallow—for a new reason now. He directs his next words to Mr. Virtue.

“Please tell your wife to send both up to the Grove. Anything else in that same vein will be welcome,” he says in a strangled voice.

John hides his laugh behind his hand. “The shipment those came in with is how we got pregnant with Emily. Oh, forgive me, my lord. That was vulgar.”

Aziraphale clears his throat and tries to get his breathing back under control. “No offense taken, of course.”

He looks back to Crowley. He’s humming to Emily and looking down into her angry, red face. Aziraphale walks away from Mr. Virtue then and toward his own husband. Like so many times before, he’s hypnotized by Crowley. He bounces the baby expertly, then pats her back.

“Thank you for taking her,” Mrs. Virtue says as she wraps their many purchases in brown paper.

“It’s no problem,” Crowley replies, between humming to her and trying to get her to burp.

Crowley has located a pair of sunglasses at some point and he’s wearing them. The pinched look around his mouth has disappeared with the dark lenses. Aziraphale is pleased to see it, but also completely absorbed in watching Crowley comfort the infant.

“Mary, what is wrong with her?” Mr. Virtue asks his wife, vaguely annoyed.

“She’s colicky,” Crowley answers. “My nephew Adam had it. His nurse used to walk him up and down the halls all night. I got pretty good at it too.”

Emily takes a deep breath and screams louder. “All right, poppet, hang on.”

Crowley looks around the store, then heads toward the chair where Mrs. Virtue previously sat. Holding Emily’s chin, he flips the child on her belly across his legs and pats her back. At first, the infant’s screams increase in anger, then suddenly taper off. Mrs. Virtue rushes over.

“Oh, she’s… I think she’s better?”

Crowley rubs the tiny back under his hand, then pats it. “Adam always needed to be stretched out. Make her kick her feet and rub her back and belly. I’m not promising it will always help, but if walking won’t, it helped my nephew.”

“The doctor said she’ll outgrow it,” Mrs. Virtue says, sniffling. “I just hate that she’s in pain. Our Johnny never had this.”

Crowley smiles down at Emily. “Perhaps she’s made for a life in public office. She’s an Alpha, I think?”

Mrs. Virtue nods. “She’ll be a demanding one then.”

Crowley lifts her up and offers her back to her mother. “Perhaps if you let her grow up and think she can be.”

Aziraphale’s world is off-kilter. He holds out his hand for Crowley to take as he stands. Crowley’s only shawl hangs around his neck and he adjusts it to better cover his skin. Aziraphale fidgets with it, settling it immediately after Crowley did it himself. His husband smiles at him, indulgently.

“You selected a new one?” he asks of the shawl. He does not look Crowley in the face as he does.

It’s the most mundane question he can ask. It’s the only thing he can say. In his head, swirling like a maelstrom is Crowley holding a baby. A child he can never give to his husband. A family they will never raise all because of his inadequacies. Crowley said he was fine not raising pups, but to see him holding that child, it’s clear that was not completely the truth. He feels his scent cuffs absently and discovers their damp. He blinks rapidly, trying to force the tears that are beginning to flood his eyes away.

“I chose two,” Crowley suddenly whitens. “Should I put one back?”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale replies, tugging on Crowley’s sunbonnet and its ribbon until it’s straight, “I’ll just settle the bill and we’ll be on our way.”

Crowley grabs his wrists then and leans so the sunglasses slide down his nose. His eyes are worried.

“Angel?”

“It’s all right, my dear,” he answers, clearing his throat. “I’ll just settle this and we’ll go to the Cottage.”

“We’ll talk there?”

Aziraphale steps toward the counter and Crowley allows him to go. His face is still lined with worry. It makes Aziraphale force his emotions down. No need to set his Omega off too.

“Well, Mr. Virtue, have we bought out the shop yet?” he jests without feeling any humor.

John tallies up his bill with a quill pen. “Just about, Lord Aziraphale. Shall I send the invoice to Zionview Grove?”

Aziraphale risks a glance at the sums. “If you’d be so kind.”

Then a number of goodbyes are issued. Crowley is now in possession of tinted lenses and a new parasol, which accompanies him from the shop. Harry the Rabbit looks bored as Aziraphale helps Crowley into the gig. He takes the horse by the halter and walks them toward the town water trough. Crowley frowns at him.

“Angel?”

“Give me a moment, please, Crowley,” he says and tries to order his thoughts.

Harry the Rabbit drinks deeply. Aziraphale looks across the square. The Cottage is in that direction with all of its unknowns and promises. It would be a lovely place to raise a family, he thinks then strikes the thought from his mind. The gig moves. Aziraphale frowns and fidgets with his waistcoat, one-handed. Crowley liked children, that was very apparent. Additionally, he’d completely admitted that he was forced into any marriage his family saw fit.

Just then the gig sways again and Crowley tumbles to the ground with a cry of pain.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelps abandoning the horse’s reins to hurry to the side of the gig.

“Sorry, angel,” he winces, “my ribs twinged as I climbed down. Lost my footing.”

“Why ever were you getting down at all?” he nearly shouts, inspecting Crowley’s arms and sides by touch.

“You were in your head. I was coming to bring you back to me,” Crowley answers, honestly.

He finds his shawl in the dust and shakes it out, then takes Aziraphale’s hand.

“What is the matter, angel? Was it the bill? I told you, we can return things. It won’t bother me—“

“I won’t discuss it here,” Aziraphale argues, looking at the people who are gathering to see the drama unfold, “but, no, it’s not money.”

Before Crowley can argue, he shoos him back to the step and helps him back into the gig. He follows quickly and clicks at Harry the Rabbit. Crowley opens his parasol and settles in its shade, all while watching Aziraphale closely.

The town rolls past them. Harry the Rabbit seems to sense their tension as his ears turn back toward them, then flick back ahead.

“Angel. What. Is. Wrong?” Crowley asks, his tone clearly warning that he will not take another brush off.

“It’s simply that I am unable to provide you everything that you desire,” he says, aiming for a matter-of-fact tone.

Crowley immediately latches onto his husband and wraps both arms around Aziraphale’s middle. The handle of his parasol presses into Aziraphale’s side.

“Angel, they’re just things! We can return them—“

“I mean children, Crowley. I can never give you children.”

Crowley stiffens next to him. The breeze wiggles the parasol. With it comes the hint of pine and, overlaid, the scent of baby. Aziraphale nearly keens with sadness. It fits on Crowley. It’s not a distraction, but a natural addition.

“Angel, I know that.”

“It’s not fair to you. You were already mated to me in all but claiming before you even knew. I should have been frank with you in the beginning,” Aziraphale laments.

He worries the reins in his hands. Crowley tips his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder and lets his lips rest near his husband’s ear.

“What is done, is done. I told you very early on that my health is fragile. As dangerous as childbirth already is, I’m sure pregnancy would be challenging. It really is all right, angel,” Crowley says.

“Is it?” Aziraphale asks, tense. He faces Crowley. “Really? Is it? Because I saw you more content to hold that infant that I’ve seen you anywhere but our nest.”

Crowley’s shrug is awkward because of his current position. “I like babies. I like kids. I don’t have to have them though. We’re going to help raise our nieces and nephews… and several of them are on the way soon.”

He frowns as he says this. “Someone help us when it does.”

“It’s not the same,” Aziraphale argues and urges Harry the Rabbit to increase his speed.

“So we’ll get a ward,” Crowley offers. “We can have a family if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re not out of options, angel.”

“It’s not the same,” he growls.

The Alpha response is all teeth. His voice drops in register and even Harry the Rabbit turns his ears back toward him. The horse shifts in his pace, uneasily.

“You want to see me round with child, eh, Alpha?” Crowley asks, his voice pitched low and gravelly.

It immediately wakes something in Aziraphale.

“We could always try, you know,” he teases in the same vein. Then his tone changes. “Aziraphale, if it’s really what you want—to raise our child—then we should see about doctors. My brother Usher’s wife Mary had to see a specialist in London because she kept losing babies.”

“It’s no use,” Aziraphale growls, trying to tramp down his response, “I’m sterile.”

Crowley kisses his ear and his sunbonnet swallows half of Aziraphale’s face in the process. “Or maybe you need a different doctor.”

Aziraphale tries to get his emotions under control as he takes a turn that will bring them to the Cottage’s drive. Crowley sighs contentedly.

“I would like to see your baby,” he admits. “Although I’d be completely lost for those hazel eyes—the kid would be completely spoilt. I’d never be able to tell him no.”

Aziraphale lets Crowley’s teasing soothe him. “What if she had ginger curls? She’d be my princess.”

“Either way, angel, it’s not a problem for today. We’ll sort it out if we need to. Right now, we have living situations to arrange, scandals to avert, and a mother to get back to Tophet,” Crowley decides.

He kisses Aziraphale’s cheek as they pull up to the Cottage. It’s a squat stone house. Its stale roof appears to have buckled and rose over time.The front is overgrown with climbing roses and the hedges are taller than the two ground floor windows. Someone has helped themself to the metal gate that divides the drive from the path up to the door.

Aziraphale lets Harry the Rabbit bring the gig up to this point, then applies the brake. He looks up and notes the chimneys on each side of the house. One looks ready to topple over.

“Perhaps,” Crowley says carefully, “it’ll be better inside.”

Aziraphale grimaces at his mate’s endless optimism. “And perhaps we best just tear the bloody thing down now and start again.”

He holds out his hand for Crowley, but he’s standing in the gig until Aziraphale takes him by the hips and lifts him down.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he teases and kisses Crowley on the tip of his nose.

Crowley preens and purrs, “You like me difficult.”

Perhaps it’s the purr, but Aziraphale can’t help himself. He chuffs at his mate and kisses his mouth, then noses down his neck. He pushes Crowley’s shawl away and kisses his husband’s claiming mark. Crowley’s inhale of surprise is worth every moment.

Aziraphale pulls back and takes Crowley’s hand. “Let’s see if Mr. Thoushant is here yet.”

He leads them up the pebble path to the house, but Crowley slows and studies all the overgrown plants.

“You need to shape up,” he warns and Aziraphale looks back at his husband in alarm.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not you, angel,” Crowley replies, glaring over his glasses at some rosemary. “This spiny thing. Absolute waste of good soil. Might as well toss it in the pyre now.”

He grabs a few of the pitiful needle-like leaves and pulls. The tiny rosemary sprig comes off and Crowley brings it to his nose.

“Not bad, but I’ll expect more in the future. I am very exacting,” he threatens. Then he offers the sprig to Aziraphale. “For remembrance.”

Aziraphale takes it, amusement dancing across his face, and tucks the evergreen into his buttonhole. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley tugs his hand and they walk around the side of the house. His mate continues to poke and prod at the overgrown garden. As the round the corner, however, Crowley stops.

“Bentley?” he asks.

Aziraphale follows his eye. Indeed, the large black stallion is tied up around the back of the house, along with three other horses Aziraphale doesn’t recognize. All are saddled.

Crowley walks up to the horse and he immediately lowers his head to nod quickly at the Omega. Crowley chuckles, “Sorry, mate, can’t take you for a ride just now. We’ve come to look at the house.”

He strokes his fingers through Bentley’s mane then leans his head on the stallion’s neck.

“I can ask my brother if we can keep him,” Aziraphale offers, gently.

Crowley’s sunbonnet creaks as he leans against the animal. “Nah, we can’t afford to keep him. Maybe Gabriel will let me ride him some time.”

Aziraphale smiles at the picture they make. The stallion has been testy with every rider, yet Crowley is practically cuddling with him. The horse tosses his head again and stamps at the post where he’s tied. He noses at Crowley and then stamps again.

Crowley laughs, “I told you, buddy, not right now.”

But Aziraphale is put on edge. He’s ridden horses into battle and knows their behaviors. Bentley is acting much as a horse reacts before it is ridden into war. In fact, all the tied-up horses are jittery.

“Crowley, come here,” he says, his voice lowering.

Crowley pats Bentley and rubs his nose. The horse pulls away, clearly not enjoying that. Crowley laughs. Aziraphale allows some urgency to enter his voice, “Crowley.”

Crowley looks in his direction, suddenly attentive. “Angel?”

Just then, a scream comes from inside the house. The horses all stamp their feet restlessly. Bentley nearly rears back, but Crowley is already at Aziraphale’s side looking blindly at the stone wall to the Cottage.

“That sounded like…”

“Uriel,” Aziraphale finishes.

“What the fuck is going on?” Crowley asks, looking around.

“I don’t know. I need you to ride into town and get help,” Aziraphale orders. “Take Bentley.”

Crowley looks from the horse to his mate. “No, I’m not leaving you. These past few weeks have been insane. There is no way—“

“Crowley,” Aziraphale growls, showing his teeth. “Get on the horse and ride into town.”

Crowley bares his throat and unties Bentley from the post. Aziraphale walks over, grabs his husband by the waist, and helps him into the saddle.

“It’s a side-saddle,” Aziraphale notes, surprised.

Crowley hooks one leg over the pommel and slides his foot into the stirrup iron and the other knee under the other pommel.“Good thing, I’ve never ridden astride.”

Aziraphale nods. “Get going. Get help.”

“I’ll go to your sister,” Crowley decides, then taps Bentley with his hand.

The horse is off like a shot and Crowley sits perfectly balanced in the saddle. His skirt flaps in the wind and Aziraphale ridiculously wishes he bought his husband a riding habit. There is another scream from indoors.

“All right then,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Once more into the breach.”

Aziraphale sneaks around the back of the house to the servants’ entrance. The door is ajar. He pushes it open with his foot, then waits. He steps up to the entrance and listens. He can hear someone, male, talking. He steps into the kitchen. It’s not well lit and it smells of disuse. The floor is flagstone. He walks softly on it. Then his foot hits something. He looks down and Gabriel’s sightless eyes stare up at him.

Aziraphale gasps and drops to his knees. He touches his brother’s shoulder and shakes him, even though he can already tell it’s useless. He’s seen plenty of dead soldiers in the trenches. Tears well up and he presses his hands to his brother’s chest. Sticky blood coats his hands. Aziraphale bows over the body and sobs.

“Yes, it’s very unfortunate,” Lady Burningstone admits from the doorway between the kitchen and the passage.

Aziraphale lurches up and stares at her through his tears.

“Your sister Michael, I’m afraid. She learned of his rendezvous with her mate and took revenge," she continues, adjusting her cravat. “It wasn’t to the plan, but nothing is exactly going as I intended. Now then, I’ll let you collect yourself, then ask you to join us in the dining room.”

She starts to leave him before she looks around the dim kitchen. She frowns, “And where is that weak Omega you mated?”

He snarls at her and she gives him an unimpressed look. “Oh, come now. I know he’s your mate, but he’s no catch.”

She turns then and her breeches swish as she strides away. Aziraphale gasps and wipes his nose with his sleeve. His brother is dead. Tears are still threatening to overwhelm him. He pats Gabriel’s chest and gasps another sob.

“Just please let me go,” Uriel begs, and Aziraphale forces himself to his feet.

Uriel has lost her husband and it’s Aziraphale’s job to protect her. He stumbles, grief-drunk, into the entry hall. This is where his great aunt once housed her giant pianoforte. It’s gone now. The drawing-room door is open, but the voices come from the dining room.

“I just want to go home,” Uriel continues, tired and frightened.

She’s so late in her pregnancy, this cannot be safe for her. Aziraphale frets at how she will handle Gabriel’s loss. He wonders if she already knows.

“Sorry, Lady Fellthrop,” says a voice that Aziraphale doesn’t know. “You’re our insurance. You’ll ensure we get our money.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” Uriel continues. “My husband has money. I can’t get you any—I’m an Omega!”

“Well, you see, that’s not true,” says a second unknown voice, “because your husband is dead.”

Uriel is silent. “I don’t believe you,” she finally says.

Aziraphale stumbles and Lady Burningstone steps out to see him.

“Oh look, it’s my precious, idiotic son-in-law,” Lady Burningstone drawls. “Do come in, Aziraphale, and meet my other idiot son, Hastur.”

Aziraphale enters and looks at Uriel. She’s sitting on the floor with her hands tied together at the wrists. Her feet also appear to be bound. As soon as he sees her, he rushes to her side.

“Uriel, are you all right?” he asks and reaches for her.

She reels back, “What is on your hands? Is that blood?”

Aziraphale stares at her, devastated. “I… oh… Uriel… I’m so sorry. I found him.”

She immediately begins to shake her head. “No. No. No. Do not say it. I will not listen to these lies.”

She protests and argues, which only makes Aziraphale begin to weep anew. He hides his face in his hands. It’s this that undoes Uriel.

“You’re lying! You’re lying!” she screams.

Aziraphale wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest. She wails, long and high, swept away in her grief.

“Oh, shut up,” says the second voice. “Can I shoot her now?”

Aziraphale whips toward the dark-skinned man and wipes at his tears. He positions himself between Uriel and those holding them prisoner.

“I swear on my mother’s grave,” Lady Burningstone growls, “if you shoot Lady Fellthrop I will end you.”

Hastur growls now too, a low snarl and he steps between his mother and, Aziraphale assumes, Ligur.

“We need her to get the money. Remember? The money? The only reason you’re not disinherited?” she snaps at her son. “You chose a stupid Omega, son.”

Hastur snarls and bares his teeth. Aziraphale feels Uriel twist and hides her face in his chest. Ligur also falls back in a cower. Hastur grabs the hunting rifle from his husband and draws on Lady Burningstone.

“Say that again, Mother. I dare you,” Hastur growls.

She stares at her son, then slowly raises her hands with her palms forward. “You’re right. It was out of line.”

“You think that since Father was useless that every Omega is. You will not speak of my husband that way,” he continues, his lip still curled back to show his canines.

She only nods. Aziraphale slides his hands under Uriel’s knees and around her back. He stands and lifts her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hastur growls in the same vein.

“I am taking Lady Fellthrop home. She has just lost her mate she does not need this nonsense on top of everything else,” he answers steadily.

“Well, unfortunately, that’s not an option, I’m afraid,” Lady Burningstone says. “You see, since Gabriel’s murder you’re in charge of the Zionview estate. We’ll need your signature.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale agrees, “but allow Lady Fellthrop to return home.”

“If my brother were here, sure,” Hastur says. “But he ain’t, so she’s got to stay and be your encouragement.”

“Collateral, babe,” Ligur says.

“Yeah! That’s the word!” Hastur exclaims excitedly.

He leans the rifle against the wall and dips Ligur in a dramatic kiss. Aziraphale considers logistics. He carefully pulls the cord that binds Uriel’s feet, then sets her down. He considers the space between him and the gun, but the maths cost him valuable time. Hastur rights Ligur on his feet and the moment has passed.

“You’re so smart,” Hastur coos and grabs the rifle.

Before anyone else can reply, Crowley calls, worriedly, from the back of the house, “Angel?”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale gasps.

Then Crowley yells, “Oh my—holy fuck! _Gabriel_?”

Uriel sobs.

And Aziraphale can’t help himself. He yells, “Crowley! _Run_!”

Lady Burningstone growls and races toward the kitchen. Aziraphale moves to intercept her, but Hastur raises the rifle toward him. He raises his hands but continues forward.

“Mother?” he hears Crowley. 

Aziraphale takes another step and Hastur presses the barrel into his chest. He hears the scuffle and looks into the entryway in worry. Lady Burningstone drags Crowley into the dining room by the scruff of his neck. His sunbonnet is gone and his hair is falling loose from his chignon. The hem of his dress is stained with blood, as are his gloves. Clearly, he’s tried to help his brother-in-law.

“Angel? Angel!” he panics, “Sandalphon is dead too. Holy someone, Angel, Michael killed him. She killed Gabriel…”

“I know, my dear, I know. Take a breath for me,” he attempts, holding out his hands to his husband.

His stomach rebels at the thought of his sweet sister taking two lives. Uriel wails again and falls to the floor, but Aziraphale only has eyes for his mate. Crowley rips free of his mother’s grasp and launches across the room into his husband’s arms. He hides his face in Aziraphale’s neck. The Alpha turns Crowley so he’s between his mate and the gun.

“Right,” Lady Burningstone huffs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “let’s clear this up. Michael killed her brother _and_ her mate?”

Crowley shivers in his husband’s arms. Aziraphale strokes his back and kisses his temple.

“She found out. About the affair,” Crowley says, haltingly. “She was sitting at the table drinking. She’s already posted a letter confessing to it all. It’s gone straight to the papers.”

At this Hastur spins around to face his mother. “That’s not to the plan!”

Lady Burningstone waves her son away and advances on Crowley. Aziraphale shifts his husband out of his arms and places himself between them. Crowley cutches the tails of his coat as Aziraphale growls in warning.

“If you’re telling the truth then this has all been for nothing. Absolutely all of it, for _nothing_!” she yells.

Ligur watches this all impassibly, then rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not. Lady Fellthrop is carrying the heir to the estate.”

Aziraphale wants to scream. He thought that everyone had forgotten about that. If he could convince them that he was the only one they needed, then the two Omegas could escape.

Hastur returns the target of his rifle to Aziraphale. He takes a step back and forces Crowley to bump into Uriel.

“Until the baby is born an Alpha, I am the acting Marquess,” he reminds them. “And, as Lady Fellthrop is an Omega, she has no rights.”

“We could take her back to Tophet,” Hastur offers. “Keep her until she pops.”

“And if the baby is a Beta or an Omega?” Lady Burningstone growls.

“No one has to know it was born alive,” he continues.

Uriel swoons and Crowley makes a grab for her. He is too slow and she hits the ground hard. Crowley drops down and pulls her up. He protects her, in the same way, he must have shielded Blanc.

That reminds him of an unknown, “Where is your other son, Lucifer?”

Lady Burningstone growls and throws her hands into the air. “His foolish mate convinced him to return to Tophet. Apparently, all the stress has brought on her heat.”

“And Dagon?” Crowley asks. “You couldn’t convince her to join in the kidnapping and extortion scheme?”

Ligur shrugs, “She stayed in Scotland. Said it was worth exploring.”

Lady Burningstone glares at Ligur. “Yes, all my children have turned against me.”

Crowley seems to forget there is a weapon trained on them because he begins to rant, “I’m sorry, Mother, but did you seriously expect loyalty from us? You have used us as nothing more than pawns for our entire lives. Hell, I didn’t even have a life until you needed to sell me off.”

Hastur gives a nasty chuckle, “Well what did you expect? You’re a broken, half-blind Omega.”

Aziraphale tries to tamp down the snarl that is working free of his throat.Crowley reaches over and wraps his hand around Aziraphale’s ankle reassuringly. Aziraphale tries not to imagine what sort of words he has been subjected to before if this is nothing worth acknowledging.

“And Mother tells us that you won’t even be having pups. She got you an equally broken Alpha.” Hastur makes a disgusted face. “If I were you,” he says to Aziraphale, “I would have thrown myself into the line of fire if I knew I wasn’t a real man anymore.”

There is a growl, but it’s not coming from Aziraphale. Crowley’s teeth are on display, ferociously. Lady Burningstone ignores all this and begins to pace up and down the length of the dining room. It’s easy without any furniture in it.

“We can still make this work. We can alert the authorities. Tell them the truth… allow the Marquess title to pass to Aziraphale and then,” she stops walking and looks past Aziraphale to Crowley.

Aziraphale’s blood is already liquid ice. Crowley had always said that his family would try to separate them. It was the Omega’s largest worry from the time they met. This was always about money. The murder and the affairs, those were the Heralds’ troubles, but the Jayanthony’s never wavered. It was always about Lady Burningstone and Lucifer’s debts.

“We’re going to lose Tophet without the money,” she says, still staring at her Omega son. “We will lose our title and our place in this world.”

“I do not actively, nor intend in the future to, give a shit,” Crowley replies, his teeth still bared. 

“Then your name will mean nothing,” Lady Burningstone threatens.

“Forgive me, but I’m Lord Crowley, husband to the Marquess of Fellthrop, the former Earl of Fellthrop, Lord Aziraphale. The best of men and an example for angels. My name means everything because of him,” he replies, haughty.

“That would only apply if you were _with_ your husband,” she replies. “Come over here.”

Crowley does not move and Aziraphale can feel pure Alpha rage building in him.

“You will not threaten my mate,” he offers and absently wonders if anyone can understand him through the degree of growling that issues forth.

Hastur raises the gun and Aziraphale thinks. The Baker rifle can be accurate and exacting for some marksmen, but the accuracy was often limited. If Hastur had loaded the musket, then he would have to reload between shots. Aziraphale glances around and does not see greased linen or paper, let along additional lead balls.

Aziraphale was a proficient rifleman with that gun. He could reload between shots in about twenty-six seconds. He could do it faster if he wanted to lower his accuracy. Hastur was not in the military. Aziraphale did not know Ligur’s history; he may have well been in the Army. That would account for the presence of that exact weapon.

Either way, Aziraphale basically has one chance.

“Crowley,” Lady Burningstone growls, “I said come here.”

“Burn in hell,” Crowley snarls.

At these words, Aziraphale rockets forward and shoves the barrel of the gun aside. Hastur pulls the trigger. There is a delay from the time it’s pulled to the time the ball fired. The ball screams through Aziraphale’s side and lodges in the plaster of the wall. Aziraphale is running on pure testosterone. He yanks the rifle from Hastur’s hands and swings it like a club at his head. Hastur goes down like a sack of potatoes.

He points at Ligur and growls, “Stay with your Alpha.”

He’s convinced that Ligur will stay put and protect his mate once he walks away. He’s lucky that he’s right. Aziraphale marches on Lady Burningstone. He brings the rifle back like a bat and threatens her with it.

“Lay on the ground,” he says in a full snarl.

She starts to argue and he swings at her. The butt of the rifle impacts her knee and she hits the ground hard. She clutches her knee and stares up at him, surprised.

“Fucking stay there,” he warns. “Crowley, can you get Uriel to the gig?”

“Sure thing,” he agrees and slaps Uriel across the cheeks. “Wake up, we need to get out of here.”

She moans but is able to put some weight on her feet when Crowley hauls her up. He throws her arm over his shoulder and staggers out of the dining room and out the front door. Aziraphale waits until they’ve had time to make it to the pathway. Then he leans down so Lady Burningstone can hear him.

“I will tell you this only once, so listen closely. You’re going to get on the horse out there and ride for Tophet. And from then on, you will forget your son Crowley. If you ever set foot in Tadfield again, I will kill you. If you ever come near us again, I will kill you. If you even speak his name in public, I will find out and I will end you. Do I make myself clear?”

She stares up at him and then slowly nods.

“Excellent,” he says.

Then he strides out the front door and slams it behind him. Uriel is slumped over the bench seat in the gig, sobbing, but Crowley is missing. Aziraphale’s heart lurches and he swings around, sighting the unloaded rifle.

“Crowley!” he shouts.

“Coming, angel!” his husband replies and runs around the house leading Bentley by the reins. “I tried to mount myself, but my ribs hurt too bad. Give me a boost?”

Aziraphale stands there, completely overcome. He drops the rifle and rushes forward. He pulls Crowley into his arms and kisses him deeply.

“You’re all right.”

“Yes, and we need to stay that way, angel. We need to get out of here. We need to go to the Magistrate,” Crowley says, earnestly. “Give me a boost up.”

Aziraphale nearly orders him into the gig. Then, with effort, he moves to the horse’s side. His husband expects a step with Aziraphale’s hands, but like earlier, Aziraphale simply grabs him by the hips and places him up into the saddle. Crowley swings his legs into place and nods. Aziraphale hurries to the gig, climbs in, throws the break, and urges Harry the Rabbit on.

Crowley rides beside the gig, his eyes wild. “Should we go into town? I couldn’t find anyone who would believe me. I’m sorry I came back. I know you told me not to—“

“Crowley, my love, I’m not angry. I was frightened.”

Crowley nods, awkwardly, then his eyes widen, “I lost my parasol!”

It’s so earnest and alarmed that Aziraphale can’t help himself. He throws back his head and laughs loudly. Crowley joins in immediately.

“We will go to Zionview Grove and send for the authorities there. I believe, unfortunately, this will require the constable and a good fee from us,” Aziraphale says softly.

His voice is nearly lost over Harry the Rabbit and Bentley’s hooves. Uriel sniffles beside him. She’s balled up on herself, clutching her middle.

“If we do that, then your sister will hang,” Crowley reminds him.

Uriel covers her mouth with her hand.

“That is only if she hasn’t ended her life before the constable finds her,” Aziraphale admits and lifts his hand to wipe his face. He sees Gabriel’s blood and drops his hand back into his lap. “Good Lord, what a terrible day.”

Uriel sniffles again and tries to sit up. “What will I do?”

“You will grieve,” Crowley says, assertively, “you will bear your husband’s child and raise it. You will find joy again slowly.”

She shakes her head, disbelievingly. “Tell me, Lord Crowley, if Michael had killed your mate, what would you do?”

Crowley lowers his sunglasses and stares at her with striking, but serious yellow eyes. “I would rend her limb from limb.”

Uriel raises her skirt to her face and wipes her nose and mouth. “Knowing that, tell me again how I will find joy again?”

“The law will punish my sister,” Aziraphale says comfortingly. “You must care for your child.”

“And if the law allows Michael to live without punishment? As they did with Lucifer just days ago?” she asks. “They said his connections and his breeding—his peerage—gave him freedom. He beat his own brother and mate. He threatened you with a gun. He forced you to marry. Yet, he walks free. And you tell me that I should trust that law? Michael is an Alpha. She will be treated with the same leniency. After all, she is an Alpha of the cloth.”

Aziraphale doesn’t argue with her, but Crowley wheels Bentley around and rides in a circle around the gig so he’s face-to-face with Uriel.

“You have a chance to put this horrid event behind you and start a family. Do you know how lucky you are? Do not throw that away. I know Gabriel made mistakes, but he would not want you to run after vengeance,” he warns, passionately.

Uriel stares at him, then ignores him and looks out the road. Crowley sighs loudly and then encourages Bentley to run ahead. He rides away, then doubles back. Bentley stamps and tosses his head, but Crowley will not let him speed away. He pulls the horse up to Aziraphale’s side once more and rides with him until they once again reach home.

The groom nearly faints when he sees the three of them. Shadwell even reacts.

“Holy bell, book, and candle,” he says with his actual accent slipping through. “What has happened to all of ye?”

Aziraphale jumps down from the gig and waves Glozier over to help Uriel. He walks to Bentley’s side and offers his arms up to his husband. Crowley unhooks one leg and looks down at Aziraphale. He suddenly looks exhausted. His red hair is completely loose and hanging around his shoulders. He reaches down and places his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. In turn, the Alpha takes his Omega’s hips and helps him off the animal.

Brian takes Bentley’s reins and leads him to the stable. Glozier follows with Harry the Rabbit. Shadwell offers his arm to Uriel, who waves him away. She staggers into the house and up the stairs. Crowley watches her go while wrapping his arms around Aziraphale.

“Lady Burningstone is no longer welcome in this house,” Aziraphale orders. “Send for the constable. Lord Fellthrop and Lord Sandalphon have been murdered and Lady Burningstone, along with her son, just tried to kidnap Lady Fellthrop and Lord Crowley. I want Lady Michael and Lady Burningstone in irons by nightfall.”

He doesn’t stay to see the servants’ reactions or answer their questions. He wraps his arm around Crowley’s shoulder and guides him into the house.

“I will send up the bathtub,” Shadwell finally says.

Aziraphale inclines his head as he guides them to their den. “Send it to Lord Crowley’s room. Tell Quartermaster to knock when it’s ready.”

Their bedroom has been cleaned. New sheets cover the bed and the room smells of them, but also outside. He’s grateful that it’s been aired. He notes the fresh firewood that is stacked by the hearth. Aziraphale turns a slow circle and looks at their den.

Crowley yelps. He throws opens the door between the bedrooms and tugs Aziraphale into the other room. As soon as they enter, he begins to strip Aziraphale of his coat and cravat.

“The servants will be here,” he warns, but Crowley ignores him.

“When were you going to tell me you were injured?” he asks, loudly.

He rips off his bloodied gloves and tosses them with the other articles of clothing. He yanks the buttons free of Aziraphale’s shirt and tosses it to the floor as servants enter.

Ellen shrieks, but Crowley ignores her. He turns Aziraphale so he can see the wound and then rips off his sunglasses. He sinks to his knees and his forehead rests on Aziraphale’s abdomen.

“It’s just a scratch. Oh, it’s just--you're okay,” and he begins to tremble. Tears pour out of him and he hitches a sob.

Aziraphale lowers himself to the floor also and wraps Crowley in his arms. “It’s all right, my dear. We’re all right.”

The servants bustle around them now that they know neither of them is about to drop dead. The sound of buckets of hot water poured into a metal tub fills the room. Finally, with a wince, Aziraphale stands and he pulls Crowley up behind him.

Eve rushes over and begins to undo his bloodstained dress. Quartermaster appears but Aziraphale waves him out. Once Crowley is down to his shift, he sends Eve away as well. He lifts his husband, as he had days before, and sets him into the bath. Crowley is not doing this alone, apparently. He does not sit nor does he release Aziraphale’s hand.

“Get in.”

Aziraphale considers the small tub and nearly makes a comment. Then he sees the wild look in Crowley’s eyes and shucks his trousers. He steps into the water behind his husband and Crowley forces him to sit first. He arranges him so his back is against the tub and his legs are hanging over the sides. Then Crowley kneels between his knees. He immediately rubs his hands with soap and dunks them repeatedly in the water, then he attends to the wound at Aziraphale’s side.

He nearly reminds his Omega that he is the carer, but the words die away. They care for each other. That is their way.

Crowley helps him scrub his brother’s blood from his hands. He scrubs it from his chest and his face. He’s not sure how it got there. Crowley is calm, but he’s still shaking like a leaf. Once he’s certain that Aziraphale is clean and not bleeding, he sinks, limp against his husband. The water displaces with his movement and pours over the sides of the tub. Aziraphale considers this, then tucks his legs down into the tub too, surrounding Crowley with all of his limbs. More water splashes out, ignored.

“You let him shoot you,” Crowley says, his voice uncertain. “You ran to a gun and let my brother shoot you.”

Aziraphale kisses the top of his beloved head. “They were going to try to take you away and hurt you. That was not an option I was willing to allow for.”

Crowley nuzzles and rubs cedar-smelling oil across his chest. Aziraphale feels the comfort of the scent immediately. In return, he brushes his scent glands across his Omega’s temples and jaw. After a few minutes of holding him, Aziraphale shifts Crowley around and sets to cleaning him as his Omega cleaned him. Blood must have soaked into his stockings because it dried in the woven pattern on his skin. Aziraphale scrubs with the flannel and washes his hair. It takes longer than usual. Both of them continue to find flakes of blood or dirt. Eventually, though, they’re clean.

“We need a bigger tub,” Crowley says wincing as he tries to stand.

“We’ll order one in London,” Aziraphale says absently wrapping himself in a bath flannel.

Crowley is poised to step out of the tub after Aziraphale, but he stops.

“Angel,” he says softly, “I won’t live there.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and remembers the sight of Gabriel dead on the kitchen floor. “Neither will I.”

He holds out the other bath flannel for his mate and helps Crowley wrap in it. He unlocks the door and then guides them into their den. He knows they need to dress and go down to answer the constable’s questions, but first, he needs to hold his husband.

Crowley seems to need it too. He climbs directly into their nest and looks expectantly at Aziraphale. It’s all that it takes for him to join his mate. Crowley immediately begins to tuck him into the duvet and fuss over him.

“My dear,” he begins, but Crowley shushes him.

He pulls Aziraphale to his chest and holds him close. His purr begins, but it’s softer than usual. It’s warm and safe. And that’s when it hits him again: Gabriel is gone.

The tears start first, then the hitching breath, then the full release of anguish. Crowley must have expected it because he holds him closer and rubs his back. He sobs for a long time until his throat is raw and his eyes hurt. He sits up, even as Crowley tries to hold him in place, and pulls his damp bath flannel from around his waist. He blows his nose and wipes the snot from Crowley’s chest.

“I’m sorry, my dear.”

“Nope,” Crowley argues and cups his face, “I will be here for that again later too. You cry as much as you need to. I still cry for Ash sometimes. Nothing wrong with grieving.”

Aziraphale wants to argue, but instead, he blows his nose again and drags himself from the bed.

“Come along, my love. We need to ensure that justice is served.”

Crowley nods and follows him back into the other bedroom. The tub has been emptied, but it still sits on the hearth. Crowley pulls on his small clothes and tight Omega-style trousers. Aziraphale watches him as he dons his own smalls and trousers. Crowley has a mid-length shift and a similar length black shirt. He fusses with the buttons, then slides on his waistcoat.

Aziraphale is slower to dress. He usually needs helps with the cravat, but tonight he just knots it like a sailor. It’s not high class, but he’s too tired to deal with his valet and his stupid beard. He has one black waistcoat, so it must do.

Watching him, Crowley plaits his hair and ties it off in a small black ribbon, then tucks it all into a fabric cap.

“You’re married now, so you’re wearing those?” Aziraphale teases the Omega, tiredly.

Crowley smiles and kisses his cheek. “My husband bought it for me. And my new shawl.”

This, and apparently the cap, both come out of a wooden crate that sits beside Crowley’s dressing stool. The shawl makes Aziraphale pleased. It’s woven with a robin's egg blue, soft wool. Crowley tosses it across his shoulders and helps Aziraphale put on his dark navy tailcoat. Then, hand-in-hand they descend the steps.

The saloon is bustling with people. Aziraphale sees his mother sitting on a sofa where the doctor forces her to drink a cordial. Shadwell rushes from person to person trying to arrange their needs. Uriel sits, nearly serene, in a chair in the middle of the chaos. She is wearing the same outfit she was earlier in the day. She stares, unseeing, into the distance.

Aziraphale guides them to a sofa and sits so their thighs touch. If anyone comes too close too quickly, he finds himself snarling. Each time he does, Crowley shrinks down and hides into his side. When he noticed himself doing it, he shakes himself and sits up again. Wensleydale brings them some tea and small sandwiches.

Crowley selects the cheddar and pear and smiles secretly. “This should just like drinking you down,” he says into Aziraphale’s ear.

The Alpha nearly spits tea. Crowley doesn’t look apologetic as his mate coughs. The sound brings the doctor though.

“I need to see your ribs, Lord Crowley,” she says. “Let’s step into the office here.”

Aziraphale stands with both of them. Doctor Nuttr smiles gently, “I don’t think you need to join us—“

Aziraphale’s low warning growl stops her. Instead, the three of them enter Gabriel’s study. The realization hits Aziraphale as soon as the door latches behind them. It’s his study now. His brother is gone. Tears well in his eyes again and he inhales deeply, smelling his brother’s leather scent.

Crowley takes his hand and guides him to the armchair by the fire. “C’mon, angel.”

Aziraphale extracts a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his eyes. Crowley stands directly in front of him and unbuttons his waistcoat. He tosses it in the chair across from his mate, then works on his shirt and shift. To the doctor, this might look like some sort of striptease. To Aziraphale, it’s another show of submission from his husband. It makes his inner Alpha, which is nearly feral at the moment, calm.

Doctor Nutter approaches cautiously, clearly aware of the dynamic. She bends down and looks at Crowley’s bruises.

“You’ve been looking after these,” she comments, pleased.

“Witch hazel, twice a day,” Aziraphale confirms. “A salve from a friend.”

The doctor nods. She finds a bandage and begins to wrap Crowley’s ribs. “Why did we stop doing this, hmm?” she asks with a raised eyebrow at the Omega.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You need to check my husband too. He’s been shot.”

The doctor nearly drops her bandage. She turns hurriedly to him. “Good God, Lord Aziraphale why didn’t you say something?”

Aziraphale laughs, “It’s a graze. Lord Crowley has already cleaned it.”

Doctor Nutter isn’t taking this at face value. “Come on then, show me!”

She finishes wrapping Crowley’s ribs while Aziraphale shucks his clothes once more. Unfortunately, the wound has bled into his shirt and he frowns at it. The doctor hovers over it and frowns. She hurries to her bag and returns with a glass bottle.

“This is… did Lady Michael shoot you?” she asks as she dabs turpentine onto the wound.

Aziraphale hisses in pain, but holds still. “No, Lord Hastur.”

“One of my older brothers. I’m beginning to wonder if I need to have some sort of certification done that assures people I am not like my family,” Crowley comments as he tucks his shirt in and buttons it.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” she says softly as she dresses the graze. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Aziraphale tries to reply, but chokes. His throat feels tight and he looks at the ceiling until the tears no longer threaten. Crowley rings the bell. Shadwell quickly responds. Crowley hands the butler his husband’s bloody shirt.

“Could you ask Quartermaster to bring Lord Aziraphale a clean shirt, please?”

Shadwell looks at the blood and gives a sharp nod, then hesitantly takes the shirt. Crowley closes the door behind him.

“Doctor Nutter,” he asks as he approaches his husband and the fire again, “what is wrong with Lady Fellthrop?”

“Pure shock, I’m afraid. Lord Crowley, as an Omega, I’m sure you know that your body produces different hormones that Betas or Alphas,” she says absently.

Aziraphale watches his mate’s face and sees him hide the fact that, no, he didn’t know that. The Alpha reminds himself to get his husband a biology textbook. What he didn’t know about his own body was criminal.

“A shock, such as the injury of a mate or pup, can force the Omega to release a large amount of adrenaline-like hormone into the system. It’s unique to Omegas. I’ve seen a tiny Omega carry all of her children across a river during a flood. She never stopped. I’ve seen an Omega give birth then defend his nest while delivering the placenta. The Ome-adrenal is extremely powerful in times of stress.

“The drop of it can kill. Evolution,” she pauses here to consider her words, “allowed these stress responses to be a way for mates to further bond. An Omega who just protected the den stops producing Ome-adrenal and immediately slips into submission. If their Alpha is there to take over, they safely enter and exit feral space. If they aren’t, then, they… well.”

The doctor repacks her bag and avoids meeting their eyes. “If we’re lucky, then Lady Fellthrop will sense the child within her and return to active consciousness.”

Aziraphale pulls his coat back on and fidgets with its hem. “And if we’re very unlucky?”

Doctor Nutter sighs, “Then you’ll entomb Lord Fellthrop with his wife and child the same day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- British estates were insane. They literally formed their grounds into three sections: the formal gardens, the park, and the wilderness. The first bit was all shaped hedges. The second carefully mowed lawns with animals grazing. To keep the sheep or cattle from getting too close to the house (and letting the ladies step in sheep shit), they employed the "ha-ha" landscaping. This was a deep rut dug then lined with a stone wall--sort of extreme terracing, but invisible unless you were right beside it (at which point, supposedly, you were to shout "haha!"). "Capability" Brown was a famous Regency landscaper whose specialty was making the "wilderness" of estates look wild, but not too wild.  
> \- If I mention any details about an accessory, it's a real item. I highly encourage you to hunt through the V&A Museum and the Met virtual tours. The stuff they have is amazing. Clasps really didn't get added to parasols for years--umbrellas had them earlier. No idea why there was a difference between the two items unless it has to do with the patriarchy.  
> \- Babies get colic and their parents just fret all the time. At this time period, they'd give them castor oil or put them in what looks like a combination of a medieval torture device and baby bouncer. Neither worked. Crowley, on the other hand, is a good nanny and he knows his stuff.  
> \- I'm really indecisive if Crowley is going to get pregnant. I am not a human that will ever have children. Pregnancy is disgusting to me and I'm happily raising 103 kids right now, I don't need my own on top of them. I liked the idea of A&C being sterile and coming to terms with it in a society that holds a very high value on continuing the line. However, I know pregnancy is sort of part of the whole A/B/O universe. What are your thoughts, reader?  
> \- The Cottage is a real place on Airbnb. It's in the Cotswolds and its roof appears to be ready to cave in and its chimneys collapse.  
> \- Their agent is "Mr. Thoushant" ... or "Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery" Pulsifer!  
> \- The Baker rifle was the most accurate (at mid to long distances) weapon at the time, but it was a bitch to load. During the on-going troubles in France, the snipers worked in teams of two, one loading, one shooting. One famous marksman shot a general and his aid in the battlefield from over 600 yards. However, they were highly inaccurate if loaded incorrectly.  
> \- BAMF!Aziraphale is my love language.  
> \- The whole "upper class gets away with a lot of crime" is no trope; it's pure truth in this time period. A famous case includes a woman who stole £1 worth of lace (that's about a month's worth of Jane Austen's budget for gifts, entertainment, and charity when she was alive--she lived by a budget, that badass lady). She then claimed she was given the wrong product as she'd bought some from the same milliner. She got off because she could speak eloquently, she had friends who gave her character witness speeches, and she had a well-known name as a "Lady" (she was also Jane Austen's aunt). Her court case took under ten minutes.  
> \- Linen caps were worn around the house by spinsters and married women. They usually sewed their own, but some folks bought them. Crowley just enjoys shopping.  
> \- In this time period, medical practices used turpentine--yes, the stuff you and I clean paintbrushes with--and/or alcohol to clean wounds. They also thought that pus meant the wound was healing, not infection. Lots of people died of blood infections as a result.  
> \- I made up a new hormone. You're welcome.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words and support. Stay safe, please.

Crowley refuses to leave his husband’s side. The constable and the Magistrate need to speak to them both, but they want to do so separately.Crowley is immovable.

“Lord Crowley, really, this will only take a moment—“ they try.

He bares his teeth and sits closer, protecting the graze at Aziraphale’s side. It’s his sword arm. Crowley never sits here with that in mind. This is no normal day.

As it advances into the evening, he stays close. Aziraphale is very aware of him, often reaching over to cup the nape of his neck or smooth his hair. He fidgets with Crowley’s gloved hand. It’s a normal gesture as if the world isn’t falling apart around them. Crowley can nearly relax then, only to jerk back to attention if someone moves too quickly or makes a loud noise. And since there are so many people in motion and speaking, he’s constantly twitching.

Uriel is similarly possessed by their new station in life, although she is basically catatonic. She sits mostly still and silent. Her eyelids are closed, but her eyes move rapidly under them. Sometimes she’ll wiggle like a restless child. She’ll jump up, rubbing her swollen belly, and shriek. If anyone tries to talk to her or touch her, she becomes combative. The Dowager seems to be the only one allowed near her. She has Uriel wrapped in a blanket in the far rocking chair. Lady Fellthrop is draped across her lap like a child. Crowley sees the Dowager has the same hunted expression he himself feels. Shadwell stands close to her protectively, but there is no deep connection like a mating bond.

Crowley watches all this worriedly. Aziraphale pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his swollen eyes. Crowley lays his hand on his mate’s shoulder and sets himself on sentry duty—he’s more alert than previously. It’s exhausting.

Shadwell motions for the footman Brian to come to him. He gives him orders and the boy runs off. Two constables pour themselves tea and mutter to one another. The Magistrate spreads papers overtop the pianoforte and mutters to himself. It’s all noise. The papers ruffle. The teacups clatter in their saucers. Aziraphale wipes his nose wetly. The rocking chair creaks. Uriel moans brokenly. Boots walk. Floors groan. Crowley twitches with every sound and his heart races. He forces his eyes to stay open. Even blinking may be too long—he might miss the danger.

The dark-haired Doctor Nutter floats about caring for people with a worried eye for all three Omegas. Crowley tracks her with his eyes. She pours heavily sugared tea and offers it to the Dowager.

“I think you should go upstairs,” she advises Crowley’s mother-in-law. “Take Lady Fellthrop with you. A good Omega cuddle is just what you both need.”

“I’d be happy to call up your Omega-in-waiting,” Shadwell encourages. “Have her back you a bag. Stay in your old room.”

“Lady Fellthrop will be soothed in her nest,” the doctor continues.

Nest. Oh, how good that sounds. Crowley nearly swoons but reminds himself that he must keep watch. Aziraphale gasps between his tears and hides his face in his handkerchief. Crowley rubs his back and whips around to watch one constable’s movements.

“Lord Aziraphale,” Doctor Nutter says softly and Crowley curses under his breath. She’s right before them and he hadn’t noticed. No more blinking, he decides.

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale replies, wetly.

“I hate to interrupt your grief—I am so very sorry for your loss. But I must remind you about Omega adrenaline drops,” she says.

Crowley feels her eyes on him when she says it, but Aziraphale is not following the hint of her warning.

“I will encourage my mother and sister-in-law to retire,” he says, wiping his nose once more. “Thank you for the reminder.”

He stands and Crowley stiffens. The doctor looks between them, worriedly.

“I’m sorry, Lord Aziraphale, you’ve misunderstood me,” she begins, but he is already making his way toward his mother.

Crowley lurches to his feet and stumbles after his mate. His feet are uncoordinated. His knees feel wooden and unmovable. He stumbles to Aziraphale’s side and presses his back to Aziraphale’s arm. He’ll protect his mate’s injured side. But Aziraphale has his back to the room, so Crowley takes in the room like a guard.

It’s worse here, he thinks. On the sofa, he had something solid at his back. Here the entire room seems larger somehow. He jumps and snarls at a footman walking by. The boy’s eyes widen in fear and he runs the rest of the way across the saloon.

It’s just Wensleydale, he reminds himself. He’s loyal to the family. He won’t hurt us.

But how to convince himself of that when the very people that he should be able to trust have hurt them so badly? Families are not made to implode. He’s read plenty of novels. He knows that Omegas are seen as weak, but he also knows that very few people stuff their Omega relations into their bedrooms and only drag them out to parade them around.

Doctor Nutter approaches with her palms up and her arms extended before her. Her eyes are on the floor and she moves slowly.

“Lord Crowley,” she says, her voice soft, “I want you to listen to me. Can you listen to me?”

He bares his teeth at her. He wants to tell her she’s being ridiculous. He wants to tell her that just because he’s an Omega doesn’t make him stupid.

“I want you to have some tea. Could you do that for me?”

Tea. He stares at her dumbly, the snarl replaced with a confused twist of his lips.

“Tea?” he says, but it comes out jumbled.

“Yes,” the doctor says softly, relief in her voice, “You’re experiencing an adrenaline drop and you’ll go into shock very soon. I need you to have some tea and then go to your nest.”

The snarl is back. He will not leave his mate. The doctor retreats a step.

Just then a handful of men enter the front door, all Alphas, and Crowley lurches in alarm. Uriel shrieks in worry and thrashes in the Dowager’s arms. Doctor Nutter jumps between their family group and the intruding Alphas, but it’s too late. Uriel, the Dowager, and Crowley all see them as a threat.

The Dowager throws the rocking chair over and grabs Uriel to her breast. She retreats, baring her teeth until her back hits the wall. She slides low, bowing her frame over her daughter-in-law. Uriel is in a frenzy. She screams and claws. The Alphas all crane their necks and mutter among themselves. Someone suggests that Omegas just need a good knotting to behave. Another goads him to try.

Crowley is frozen.

The doctor runs for her bag then approaches the Dowager and Uriel with her hands extended.

“Please let me help,” she says softly.

The Dowager seems to accept her as a friend and allows her to kneel beside them. Before Crowley understands what’s happening, the doctor tips a tonic into Uriel’s mouth. She gags and spits, but enough of medicine makes it into her.

“It will help her rest,” Doctor Nutter assures the Dowager. “I can give you one too. Then you can rest.”

The Dowager stares at the doctor with huge eyes. “You’ll take care of me?”

And the doctor sighs. “I am not your Alpha. But I will help you rest.”

Aziraphale moves to his mother then and encourages her to her feet. Shadwell waves Wensleydale and Brian over to him. Together, with the oversight of the doctor, they lift Uriel. Shadwell offers the Dowager his arm and they move for the stairs. Aziraphale shadows them and Crowley feels his slim grasp on the present disappearing.

Where is his mate going? It’s a frantic thought.

The constable speaks to the crowd of Alphas. They carry lanterns and rope. They listen to the orders about capture and justice, but the words all swarm over Crowley as too loud, too abrupt, too much. He finds himself trembling.

“Crowley?” his mate calls, distantly.

Aziraphale is across the saloon, his eyes swollen from crying and his face worried. He sounds like he is a million miles away. Crowley feels sweat gathering on his face and he shrinks back from noise behind him. The Magistrate shuffles his papers. The Alphas mutter among themselves. One constable holds up a map and another laughs loudly.

Aziraphale takes a step closer. “Crowley?” he tries again.

It’s so much.

It’s too much.

Doctor Nutter is on the stairs and yelling, “Catch him!”

There is too much of everything. He’s too overwhelmed. And Crowley’s vision whites out. He feels gravity all around him. And then Aziraphale is beside him and Crowley smells pears. It’s grounding.

Yes. His Alpha.

It’s so easy then to just sink to his knees at Aziraphale’s feet. He lets his head drop back and exposes his throat.

He hears some Alpha, an unknown villager, growl in lust. It frightens him and he cries out a pure animalistic sound. Aziraphale must move like lightning because he has Crowley lifted into his arm possessively.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, I didn’t realize you were dropping,” he whispers, before issuing a possessive and warning snarl to the Alphas. “You would do well to know your place. How dare you insinuate that a marked Omega—the Lord Omega of this house—is worth leering at.”

“You need to take him to your nest _now_ ,” the doctor orders and she’s no longer kind and gentle. They’re moving, but it’s all distant to Crowley.

“I’ll have tea sent up. Get liquids into him. Keep him warm,” she directs and Crowley feels them climbing steps. “This is not like a heat. He’s past any sort of coherent decision making, Lord Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale growls at her, “If you’re suggesting that I take my husband when he’s unable to consent—“

“You’re not listening to me,” Doctor Nutter argues. “You’re not going to have a choice. His body is in complete shutdown. You need to pull him back before he enters cardiac arrest—physical contact is a must. Sex triggers endorphins, they’ll help modulate his blood pressure.”

This sounds dire but Crowley is past caring. He feels floaty and confused. The only thing that makes sense is his mate. Aziraphale’s neck is right beside his nose. He nuzzles and paws at the inexpertly tied cravat. He’s uncoordinated but manages to wiggle it down and rub at the exposed skin.

“Alpha,” he murmurs feeling adrift.

“I’ve got you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I was… a bit lost. I didn’t see that you needed me.”

Crowley wants to protest about grief and unnecessary responses, but he’s unable to get his mouth to move as he needs it to. Instead, he tugs at the laces of his scent cuff and smooths his cedar oil onto his mate’s throat. Aziraphale’s answering rumble soothes him. He tucks his face back into Aziraphale’s neck.

“I’ll stay close,” the doctor promises. “I suspect he’s going to… it will be a doozy. He’s encountered stressor after stressor this month.”

“He had a gun held on us at our wedding,” Aziraphale admits. “Was our honeymoon that intense because of it?”

Crowley hears the concern in his mate’s voice and tries to comfort him with his scent oil.

“No,” the doctor says gently as they reach the door to their den. “You probably delayed the worst of this because of any mini-heat his body went into.”

“So I’ve ignored his needs,” Aziraphale says defeatedly.

“Take care of him,” Doctor Nutter repeats and holds open the door to their den. “Call me if he’s non-responsive.”

Crowley ignores all this. He’s floating. The door to their den closes. Crowley inhales deeply and smells their mingled scents. Their den. Their nest. It’s calming. He sighs with pleasure as Aziraphale sits him on the trunk at the foot of their bed. His mate kneels before him and lays his head in Crowley’s lap. He’s crying, panicked.

With clumsy fingers, he pets Aziraphale’s hair.

“Alpha,” he tries to say, but his tongue is numb.

Aziraphale wipes his eyes on Crowley’s knee then quickly divests him of his clothes.

“Must keep you warm. Liquids,” he repeats before scooping Crowley into his arms.

Crowley shivers, uncontrollably. He’s naked and he continues to awkwardly paw, trying to get Aziraphale’s tailcoat free. His husband ignores him and slides him into their bed. He pulls the eiderdown over him and begins to run about the room. Crowley tries to focus, but all he can do is whine. It’s a reedy cry.

“I know, my love. I know,” Aziraphale replies.

He closes bed curtains and stokes the fire. He locks doors and moves furniture in front of them. He strips off his clothes and pours a glass of water. Finally, he’s climbing into the bed. He kneels beside Crowley and helps him sit up.

“Drink,” he orders and holds the glass to Crowley’s lips.

Crowley is beyond doing anything except following orders. He takes huge gulps and coughs and sputters. Aziraphale yanks the glass away as Crowley coughs. Even so, the order rings through his confusion. Crowley follows the water glass, determined to mind his Alpha.

“Easy, easy, it’s all right,” Aziraphale says, his voice tearful. “Good Lord, I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

Crowley freezes, even as the trembles overtake him once more. He doesn’t want to be bad. He lifts his chin to submit, only to remember he’s supposed to be drinking. He cries out, confused and pitiful. The duvet falls around his waist and his shaking doubles.

The glass is gone and Aziraphale is there. He pushes Crowley onto his back and covers his body with his own. He pulls the duvet over both their bodies and smoothes his hands through Crowley’s hair.

“Hush, my darling. You’re doing so well. I want you to relax. Yes, that’s it,” Aziraphale whispers.

He’s peppering Crowley’s face with kisses. His fingers trace the top of his bandage and Crowley shivers with each touch.

“I want to claim you. Would you let me take you? Will you let me make you feel good?” he asks, hoarse with tears.

It’s confusing. Aziraphale should sound wanting. Instead, he sounds sad. Crowley can’t make sense of it in his foggy thinking. He tosses his head, trying to expose his mating mark and make his eyes open so he can see Aziraphale. He wants to ask about his mate’s mental state. All that comes out is a confusing glob of letters. It’s a strangled moan.

Then Aziraphale is kissing him. It’s gentle and warm. Crowley tries to tangle their tongues but only succeeds in bumping his awkwardly against his husband’s. Aziraphale’s hand traces down his body and cups his flaccid cock. This makes his husband give a hiccup of sadness.

“My dear boy,” he says brokenly, “I don’t think I can do this.”

He lays his hand over Crowley’s heart. He must feel how it races. He must see the sweat gather on his mate’s temples. He must see the pallor of Crowley’s skin because he hides his face. He presses his forehead into Crowley’s sternum.

“Please forgive me for this. If I’d paid closer attention…” he kisses the skin under his lips.

There is something about that. Something about the sadness and the fear that shakes Crowley from his stupor. He blinks rapidly and flexes his fingers.

“Angel?” he asks.

Aziraphale sits up quickly to meet his eyes. Crowley raises a shaking hand and cups his husband’s chin. He’s crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, but his letters drag out in a slurred hiss.

“You don’t want this,” he whispers, pressing Crowley’s hand to his face. “The doctor said you need this to bring your blood pressure back under control.”

Crowley stares at him, uncomprehendingly. He tries to organize all the things he’s heard. He has to filter out all the movement and sound that has clouded his mind.

“Oh,” he says thoughtfully, but messily, “I’m crashing, huh?”

“Completely,” Aziraphale admits before pulling the duvet more securely around Crowley.

“You’re going to save me again,” Crowley slurs, pleased.

Aziraphale’s face morphs with frustration. “I’m the one who let you get this bad. I should have seen—“

With another long hiss, Crowley interrupts, “So fix it.”

He tries to wave his hand in the direction of their nether regions but just smacks Aziraphale in the side of the head instead.

“Sorry,” he hisses, the word becoming three times longer than it usually was.

“You’re not in any shape to know what you’re saying—“

“Sure,” and this again was more “s” than usual, “Angel. My husband is going to take me to bed, mark me, and knot me, and I’ll be right as rain. He’ll save me. Again.”

And wasn’t it just the truth. Maybe it was too many novels, but he’d always hoped for this. Swept off his feet and treasured was too much to ask for when he was a pup, but saved from his family? That was all he’d hoped for. In the end, he’d gotten it all.

He’s shaking uncontrollably again and his heart stutters. He struggles to keep his breathing under control. “I need you, angel. Please.”

Aziraphale kisses him, a chaste brush of lips. It brings their chests together and Crowley presses closer to that heat. His trembling makes his hand flutter against Aziraphale’s face, even held as it is by the Alpha’s hand. His other hand falls, useless to the mattress. Aziraphale tucks it under the eiderdown.

Aziraphale lifts his hips up and slides two pillows under him. “Is that all right?”

But the fog has rolled back into Crowley’s mind. His Alpha is taking control. He can relax. It’s like his rational mind recedes and Omega instincts fill the void. He begins to purr.

From then on he takes in moments, just vague snapshots. He feels his heart race. He feels cold. He feels pressure at his entrance, then Aziraphale’s sigh of pleasure. He feels his purr increase. His legs are arranged and then Aziraphale is sliding into him and out of him and into him and out of him in smooth rocks.

“Are you warm enough?

“Crowley? Are you warm enough?

“My darling, you are not being particularly helpful—but you feel wonderful.”

Another blanket is laid across his chest and he can only sigh with pleasure. His heart is pounding, but in a pattern again. There is no fluttering feeling in his ribs any longer. His toes tingle. Aziraphale slides in and out. Crowley sighs dreamily. It’s good. It feels so good.

“You like that?

“Oh, my darling, how lovely you are.

“Would you like me to, hmm, yes, let’s move your leg? Yes, right there, I think that you should feel…”

And he pistons in and Crowley sees stars. He’s been helpless to do anything but offer pleased sighs. That one, however, makes his breath hitch. Aziraphale does it again. And again. Short, abrupt, hard thrusts that drive the air from his lungs and make his quaking stop.

His purring is a violent rumble that might be vibrating the headboard. Aziraphale rumbles back at him and leans over him to kiss his neck. They tickle and scorch and Crowley can only sigh. It’s all slowing, like molasses now.

The snapshots come in less frequently. He just drifts into soothing darkness that smells like poached pears in a cedar forest. It’s dark and warm. He feels the tug of his muscles that suggests his mate’s knot is growing. Aziraphale is giving little abortive pants onto his shoulder over his claim mark. It’s humid and hot and Crowley sighs blissfully.

There’s a bite.

There’s a knot.

It pushes Crowley deeper into his high and he feels his body explode with orgasm. Even that is too distant to worry about. He just floats.

It’s later, he thinks. But Aziraphale is pulling free of him and lifting his legs over his shoulders. There’s a warmth at his entrance. Sucking pressure and hot tongue. Aziraphale hums with delight and pulls his cheeks apart to feast. It’s enough to know he’s pleasing his Alpha. He drifts away again.

It’s later yet. Aziraphale is holding him against his chest, letting his head loll against his neck.

“I have some broth here. I am going to give you some. I want you to take little sips. You will only take little sips as not to choke. You want to please me, don’t you, my darling?”

He can only croak out a needy whine. The threat of being bad is too much to take right then.

“Of course you do. So here we are, just a little at a time.”

There is something against his lips and he drinks, as ordered. It’s salty and warm. He drinks it down. When it’s gone, Aziraphale showers him in praise and kisses. Then he rolls them onto their sides and slides back into Crowley’s body. He groans with pleasure and tries to press back.

“Be good and let me take care of you. You are so wonderful, my darling boy.”

And there’s a knot and a bite and pleasure extreme. He drifts away.

“My treasured mate,” Aziraphale calls to him later as he wipes between his cheeks with a flannel, “come back to me for a moment, my love.”

And Crowley tries, but he’s so deep under the weight of his fog. He groans and nearly panics. Aziraphale presses his fingers into his claim mark and Crowley keens.

“It’s all right. Thank you for trying. You can stay right there. You are so good. Look how much you’ve given me, my dear. I just wanted to get some more broth in you.”

It slow sips of salty liquid and a shower of Aziraphale’s praise. He’s never tried to drink and purr simultaneously before and it’s hard to manage in his stupor. Aziraphale kisses his nose and calls him precious. He slides back under.

And then, at last, Aziraphale calls for him.

“Crowley.

“My darling, my love.

“Shh, no, there’s nothing wrong. You did so well, my treasured mate. My beloved.

“You did so well. You’re so good to me. Will you come back to me, my dear boy? Will you let me show you how well you’ve done?”

And Crowley blinks himself slowly back to their nest. Aziraphale sits against the headboard and Crowley lays on his stomach between his legs. Aziraphale is stroking his hair. He’s swaddled in blankets like a child. He works one arm out of the clutch and rubs his eyes.

“There you are,” Aziraphale praises and cups his jaw. “How was your nap?”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” he jokes, but his voice is gravelly and rough.

Aziraphale’s face lines with sadness and worry, but he strokes his fingers into Crowley’s hair.

“It was the best thing to come out of this mess,” he admits. “Caring for you is my honor. I only wish I had noticed sooner.”

Crowley rests his palm on Aziraphale’s chest. “None of that, angel. We got there in the end.”

He reaches over and pushes the bed curtains open. Gray light spills into the room.

“Dawn or dusk?” he asks.

“Dawn. You’ve been out for three days, I’m afraid.”

Crowley yawns and stretches. “No wonder I need the chamber pot.”

“Well, oh dear, you, hmm,” Aziraphale dithers and looks at the ceiling of their canopied bed.

“Shit. Did I…” he looks down at the mattress, expecting to find a puddle.

“No, my dear. I’d never let you experience that embarrassment. You have, however, needed help standing to make it to… the necessary.” Aziraphale blushes prettily.

Crowley stretches up and kisses his mouth. “You’ve had your tongue in my ass, angel. If you helped me take a piss it’s appreciated, but not embarrassing.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relax immediately and slide away from his ears. “Oh thank you! I did hope that I didn’t do the wrong thing. It’s been bothering me.”

Crowley chuckles, gruffly. He does enjoy watching his husband get wound up.

“But you’re an angel. I don’t think you could do the wrong thing.”

Aziraphale slaps his shoulder lightly. “You need to get up. We have an appointment and, while I hate to fuss, you need to clean your teeth.”

Crowley stares at him in a way that he hopes is very level and sarcastic. “Again. Your tongue. In my bum. You may not fuss.”

Aziraphale’s countenance flashes through a series of expressions and colors. He stutters, “Why, you! How! I!”

Crowley throws his head back and laughs loudly. Aziraphale slaps his shoulder again.

“You fiend!”

And Crowley’s laughter breaks off immediately. “Ashtoreth used to call me that.”

Aziraphale looks struck. “Oh, my darling. I’m terribly sorry—“

“No, please. It’s… good. Our nanny used to say that all things are a wheel. Everything comes back around,” he says as he untangles the blankets.

“Shakespeare believed the same. Called it ‘giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel’,” Aziraphale replies, helping his husband slide from the bed.

Crowley’s knees are weak and his hip is tight. What a time for his body to act up. He grunts and tries to take a step. His hip seizes and he slips. Aziraphale grabs him around the waist and holds up upright.

“Fortune seems to think I shouldn’t walk today,” he grumbles.

He rubs at it and looks up at his mate’s pinched expression. “Nope!” he argues. “We are not feeling sorry for me! We are not casting blame on you! I’ve done this my entire life, angel. It happens with the weather or after a ride or because it’s Tuesday. It just happens sometimes.”

“My darling, you deserve to be made over and worried about,” Aziraphale argues, helping him to the corner of the room and its chamber pot. “I feel that you’ve had very little of it in your life.”

Crowley smiles, adoringly at Aziraphale. “You’re ridiculous.”

Aziraphale scoffs. Crowley kisses him. And kisses him again. And again. It’s intoxicating.

“My dear,” Aziraphale interrupts, “as lovely as this is, our solicitors are on their way, and… you _must_ clean your teeth.”

Crowley gives a happy laugh. “Ring the bell, would you? I’ll get cleaned up.”

They go into the other bedroom once Aziraphale moves the tallboy that barricades the door. Crowley makes an absent note to ask someone to add a bolt to this side of the door. Moving furniture takes too long.

He bathes in the basin Eve brings behind the dressing screen while Quartermaster dresses Aziraphale. He has to balance on the table to hold his weight. His hip refuses to cooperate.

“I suppose we’ll see you both ensconced in the lord’s suite soon?” Quartermaster asks, gruffly.

Crowley is using the soap ball to scrub at his underarms and he pauses to consider this. “Can we move our bed there?”

“You’re the lords of the house, you can do whatever you want,” Eve laughs.

Aziraphale hasn’t answered and Crowley can’t see him—the dressing screen is the only thing in the mirror’s reflection.

“I am not sure I’m ready to move into my brother’s den yet,” he finally answers and Crowley has to force himself to stay where he is.

There are so many layers of pain in his husband’s voice.

“Angel?”

“I’m all right, my dear. I’m just… this is all very much in one short period of time. And I’m afraid, well, it’s going to be much more complex in just a few minutes.”

Crowley splashes his face and torso, trying to get clean faster. Eve huffs and hands him a flannel. It’s a race then, to get ready as quickly as he can so he can be his mate’s side. Eve seems to think him ridiculous, judging by her eye roll. She helps him into the black muslin dress he arrived in. His heart is suddenly heavy. _Ash_. Lord, he misses her.

“I thought this chapter of my life was over,” he says, plucking at the dark fabric.

Eve pats his shoulder. “Death is a part of life, my lord.”

He doesn’t answer but limps around the dressing screen to sit and have his hair dressed. Aziraphale seems content to sit in the armchair by the fire while Crowley’s tresses are curled and twisted with black ribbons. He laces on his scent cuffs and watches the Alpha in the reflection. His husband wears mourning colors gracefully, as he does everything else. It does make him appear drawn and pale though.

“What did I miss? Three days, you said. Clearly, things have changed,” Crowley says. “You’ve been to the tailor for one.”

“Ah, well, no. Mr. Doubleerik keeps my numbers on file. This coat is without his usual in-person adjustments. We’ll have to go down and see about some additions to our wardrobes, I’m afraid.”

Crowley nods as he pulls his new gloves into his lap. “I should be set, actually. If Blanc sends my clothes on, that is. We dyed several of my outfits,” he says, his voice drifting away. “I’ve been in black for… a while.”

Eve watches his face in the mirror, worry etched there.

“I do wish I could have met Lady Ashtoreth properly. Two small interruptions of your private confidences did not really count. She seemed a bright spirit,” Aziraphale says, gently.

Crowley focuses on pulling on his gloves, but he hears Aziraphale's approach. Eve steps away and excuses herself. Aziraphale nudges his husband to the side with his hip and settles by Crowley on the dressing stool.

“I shouldn’t be thinking of her, I know that. Lord, we’ve just lost two… and I should be thinking of you. But… very suddenly, I miss her.”

“My dear, there are no limits on the love we have. For many years you only had her. Besides, I’m not actually sure you’ve been allowed to grieve her,” Aziraphale argues.

Crowley leans into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Will you go visit their graves—Gabriel and Sandalphon’s, I mean?”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a confused look in the mirror. “They’re not yet in the ground, my love. The funeral is this week.”

Crowley bites the inside of his mouth and fidgets with his gloves. This is another one of those moments when he realized that something he had long accepted as fact wasn’t that. He clears his throat.

Aziraphale takes his hands and wraps his own around Crowley’s. “Ask. Whatever you’re confused about, my dear, just ask.”

Crowley sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, “Just… I. Well. I’m pretty sure I’ve been… ignorant of something again.”

Aziraphale bows his head and kisses Crowley’s gloves. “Ask, my love.”

  
His throat is tight, but he does. “Did my sister have a funeral?”

Aziraphale tightens his hands incrementally but forces his arms to relax.

“They did, right? And they didn’t let me attend. Or they didn’t because she was disposable. Just like me.” Crowley’s voice cracks.

Aziraphale tugs him into his arms and holds him tightly, “You are absolutely not. That is utter tosh. You are the most precious thing in my life and those idiots… they’ve tried to crush you, Crowley, but they couldn’t. You’ve made yourself into the brightest shining thing in the room—no matter where I go, I will always see you first and have my breath taken away. You are so strong."

Crowley lets his eyes shut again and tries to get his breathing under control. Aziraphale kisses his hair.

“I don’t know if your sister had a service, but it is customary… even if it’s just a blessing at the graveside. It is suggested by some that Omegas and ladies can become too overcome and emotional at funerals. Perhaps they thought you were too delicate to attend,” he’s quiet for a moment. “You have been to see her grave?”

Crowley nods. “She’s in the burial ground closer to Tophet. I could walk there if my hip allowed it.”

“She’s not in the churchyard?” Aziraphale asks, astonished. He tries to temper his tone, but too late.

Crowley shrugs. “My father is in the churchyard, I think. Or some churchyard. Somewhere. I’ve never been to see him. Didn’t need to, you know? Never met him. Not really.”

“My father is there,” Aziraphale says. “The family tomb holds a number of Herald generations. Gabriel will join them.”

“Sandalphon?” Crowley asks worriedly.

Aziraphale’s sadness just looks like exhaustion. “His family want him buried in their family plot in their local parish.”

“But… is that… how does Michael feel about this?” Crowley sputters. “She’d want her mate in her family crypt.”

Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s hair again and settles at his feet to help him into his stockings and slippers. “I’m afraid I cannot speak to my sister. She’s been taken to a local prison. His family believes she forfeit the rights to his body when she hurt him—she broke her vows.”

“As did he,” Crowley comments watching Aziraphale lace his stockings above his knees. “I’ll never hurt you like that, angel. I can’t understand it… I’d never want anyone else to touch me. I don’t know how he… how he broke Michael’s heart like that.”

Aziraphale kisses his knee before setting work on his other stocking. “I wish I could have helped. But, yes, I am equally baffled. I will have no other but you, my love.”

He kisses the other knee before Crowley reaches for him. He pulls his mate up, so his chest is draped across his lap. Crowley bends down and kisses him passionately.

“And neither will I. You are my beloved.”

Aziraphale cups his cheek, traces his fingers across the snake-like Omega mark at his temple, and kisses him again. “Well then, I suppose we’re stuck together.”

Crowley’s smile is besotted, he knows. Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle with delight and he kisses Crowley’s nose.

“Come now, my dearest. We’ll go down for some tea and then meet with our appointments,” he says as he rises and offers his hand to his husband.

Crowley lets him pull him to his feet, although he grunts when his hip protests. His spine feels left out apparently and radiates pain. Aziraphale frowns. Crowley attempts to cover it up by grabbing his shawl and fan.

“All ready! I’ve got all my frills!” he says with a grin.

Aziraphale smiles and offers his arm. Crowley takes it with a smile that he hopes covers his grimace. Two steps later, however, he must stop walking. He sways. He grits his teeth as Aziraphale wraps his arms around his waist.

“Shall I carry you?”

“I’d rather try and walk,” he admits. Another step makes his leg buckle. “But, as you’re willing, yes.”

Aziraphale lifts him with the same delicacy and adoration that he always does. Crowley’s skirt drapes across his forearm, but Aziraphale pauses to ensure his stockings are hidden.

“Am I decent, angel?” he teases, even as his mate glares at him.

“No one will be seeing what belongs to me, thank you,” he growls, and while it’s meant teasingly, there is an element of truth in his words.

  
Crowley grins and hits Aziraphale in the chest with his fan. “Be a gentleman.”

Aziraphale sniffs and carries him into the hall. “I am never anything else.”

“You can be a bit of a bastard,” Crowley admits and Aziraphale pinches him in the back.

The doctor and her wife are also in the hallway, leaving the lord’s suite. Her wife looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“Doctor, Mrs. Nutter,” Aziraphale says with an incline of his head.

Crowley copies his nod, ignoring the twinge it delivers up his back. Doctor Nutter slings her arm around her wife when she sees her reaction.

“Steady on, Lilith.”

“It’s like… he’s the spitting image of Raphael,” Mrs. Nutter says breathlessly with surprise.

Crowley isn’t sure what to say to that so he addresses Aziraphale. “Should we check in on Uriel?”

The doctor interrupts, “If any Alpha goes to attend to Lady Uriel, they must be mated and with that mate. At least one other Omega in the room, I must insist.”

“That’s quite a crowd,” Crowley offers.

“I’m afraid that Lady Uriel is past thinking… she’s crashed very hard,” the doctor says sadly.

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale asks.

“It means that she is willing to be mated or claimed by any Alpha. She may also… recognize an Alpha as a trustworthy bond, even if they are mated,” she warns.

“I thought imprinting wasn’t really a thing?” Crowley admits.

“Many people, in science and politics, have come to believe that Omegas are going to die of heartbreak, so they do nothing to stop it. The crash, as seen in your personal experiences, can be traumatic, but is in no way fatal,” Doctor Nutter says, pulling her wife along with her. “It is a sensitive time, though. An Omega can be taken advantage of by a profiteering Alpha.”

Mrs. Nutter has yet to look away from Crowley. Crowley shifts, uncomfortable with this level of attention. He turns his attention back to the conversation.

“If that’s true, then no Alpha in my family should be near her. Especially, my mother,” he says.

Aziraphale shifts him and looks pained. “You don’t think?”

“I absolutely do think. She’d take Gabriel’s heir and proclaim herself its protector,” Crowley explains.

Aziraphale nods slowly, he lowers his voice. “We’re going to sort that out today with the inheritance paperwork. You and I need to talk about that.”

Doctor Nutter and her wife make their way closer, but Mrs. Nutter is still staring.

“We were going down for some breakfast,” Aziraphale says, at normal volume. “Care to join us before the lawyers descend?”

In the dining room, Crowley allows his husband to seat him and serve him, but he does make a face.

“I can get my own breakfast,” he says.

“I like doing it,” Aziraphale admits, handing him his tea.

Crowley blushes and takes the teacup and saucer from his Alpha. “Thank you, angel.”

Once everyone has cake and ale or tea, the foursome sits down. Mrs. Nutter is still staring. Crowley fidgets and looks up. He sees her staring, then pokes his cake with his fork.

“Mrs. Nutter, you look as if you’ve seen,” Aziraphale studies Mrs. Nutter, then lays his hand across the nape of Crowley’s neck, “a ghost.”

“Not a ghost as such, just…” she looks to her wife and the doctor urges her on.

“Now’s the time, Lilith. He deserves to know,” Doctor Nutter says.

Crowley clutches his fork and leans into his husband.

“You don’t remember me, then?” Mrs. Nutter asks.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Nutter,” Crowley tries for apologetic and not creeped out. “We are not acquainted. Your wife was not our family doctor and we were not introduced before my unfortunate run-in with my brother’s walking stick.”

Aziraphale growls low in his chest but coughs to stop it and pats his chest.His fingers grip Crowley’s nape, then relax again.

“No, Lord Crowley, long before then. I was Lady Lilith Samael as a child—your cousin!” she exclaims. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since you were a little pup!”

Crowley blinks. It’s a conscious action. Aziraphale is very still beside him. He makes himself blink again. Finally, he says something.

“I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Nutter, but—“

“Your father, Raphael Samael is my uncle!”

Crowley shakes his head, “Again, forgive me, but my father’s Christian name was ‘Samael’, not ‘Raphael’.”

“Pardon me,” Aziraphale begins, “do you mean _Commodore_ Raphael J. Samael? Of the _Afreet_?”

Doctor Nutter nods, “The very same.”

“Who is not my father,” Crowley grumbles and sips his tea. “My father’s been dead for nearly twenty-six years.”

Mrs. Nutter is frustrated. “No, he isn’t! He’s been fighting for you since then, however!”

Crowley thinks about blinking but doesn’t. Aziraphale is even more still beside him.

“Oh, good Lord,” he breathes. “Commodore Samael’s divorce was all the gossip, but no one knew who his wife and Omega was. It was all very hush-hush. I remember my father going as a character witness for the custody of…”

He trails off and looks at Crowley.

Crowley hits him in the arm with his fan. “Don’t tell me you’re sucked into this foolishness, angel! This is a few silly buggers.”

Aziraphale is very serious. “My dear, are you familiar with that ongoing newspaper story—“

“Oh, one of those heartbreaking tales that those leeches drag out for years and ruin people’s lives?”

“—of ‘the Commodore and the Missing Twins of Mayfair’?”

Crowley drops his fan onto the table. “Come again?” he asks, without any emotion.

“Uncle Raphael has been fighting for custody of you and your twin sister for nearly twenty years, Lord Crowley. He and Lady Burningstone have been tied up in the courts—every time he returns to shore he goes in person to Parliament or the newspapers!” Mrs. Nutter continues.

“But,” Crowley lets out an exhale and reminds himself that it’s only coincidence, “my father’s name was Omega Lord Burningstone—Lord Samael of Tophet. _Not_ Raphael. He was in the war—where he _died_.”

Aziraphale’s hand slides from his neck and down his arm to take his hand. “My love, what was your father’s family name?”

Crowley stares at his husband. “I… I don’t know,” he admits, hesitantly. “I’m sure… I mean… I’m sure I must.” He turns the question over in his mind. “There’s no way… I mean, someone must have told me, right? I _know_ my own father’s name.”

His leg bounces and he fidgets.

“We are not trying to alarm you,” Doctor Nutter says, softly. “There is no need to panic. Do you need some tea?”

Crowley’s brain is rolling through years of actions and questions that never made sense. He yanks Aziraphale’s arm up to his face and rips his husband’s scent cuff off. He presses his nose to Aziraphale’s scent gland. Aziraphale maneuvers in his chair and pulls Crowley against him.

“Just take deep breaths,” his Alpha whispers.

“Angel, it’s all been…” he shakes his head and presses his nose into the comforting scent of pears again. He takes a deep breath. “Why did my mother call him by his _surname_?”

Aziraphale’s other hand slots into the possessive hold of Crowley’s neck. “I have no idea, my darling.”

“He’s alive?” he says, his voice incredulous.

“Yes, very much. I’ve met him,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not crashing,” Crowley interrupts.

“No, it’s not that,” Aziraphale says pressing their foreheads together. “It’s that just when I think I know how much I want to put your mother into a meat grinder, I find that there’s another level to my anger.”

“A meat grinder, angel?”

“Would you rather she were dragged by a runaway horse? Eaten by the Kraken? Sent to Australia?”

Crowley chuckles. “I wouldn’t want to frighten the kangaroos.”

“America, then?”

Crowley drags his husband’s scent gland across his own throat. Aziraphale takes the hint and scents him across his temples and neck.

“Better, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. “I mean, as better as you can be?”

“He really fought for us? He wanted us?” he asks.

He’s annoyed that his voice is so small.

“He really did. I’m sure we could find the court documents or at least the news articles,” Aziraphale admits, settling back in his seat.

“Or you could meet him. He’s in port,” Mrs. Nutter exclaims. “I wrote to him when I learned who you were.”

“Why did he never come to Tophet?” Crowley asks, rubbing his face with his palms.

“He did. So many times. Your mother… well you know, he’s an Omega. He has no legal rights!” Mrs. Nutter argues.

“But he’s… a _Commodore_? How is that possible? I didn’t think that Omegas could hold high ranks?” Crowley continues, trying to realign his whole childhood with this revelation. “Oh, _fuck_ , do my siblings know he’s alive?”

“Uncle Raphael has tried to contact all of you at some point or another. I believe he’s only been able to physically contact your brother,” Mrs. Nutter replies.

“Which brother?” Crowley asks, worried.

“The older, Alpha one?” she replies, nervously.

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t narrow it down,” Crowley drawls. “It was Lucifer, right? It’s _always_ fucking Lucifer.”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “He had a strange name.”

“We all have strange names,” Crowley snipes, suddenly suspicious. “I’ll run through the list then, _cousin_ Lilith?”

She blushes, “I knew you all when you were younger, I swear! We never met often though. Your mother didn’t approve of our side of the family.”

“Sure—but, you can’t remember my brothers’ names?” Crowley asks, his skepticism growing now that he’s not in such shock.

“It’s something to do with the theater. He was young—really young when I last saw him,” she admits, fidgeting.

“Not that I don’t believe you, but,” Crowley stares at her, suddenly justified, “ _I don’t believe you_. Or any of this story. What are you here for? Money? Just happened to find a way to swing a story to make sense for a payout?”

He stands and Aziraphale lets him go. He doesn’t argue. Crowley pushes back from the table.

“How could you _do_ this? My brothers-in-law have both been murdered and you show up playing this farce? How cruel _are_ you?” he rails.

Mrs. Nutter begins to cry and the doctor is soothing her.

“It’s no lie, Lord Crowley,” Doctor Nutter argues. “I know it’s farfetched, but it is the truth.”

“Then why not tell us this when my mother was here? And my eldest brother? Trust me, they’d love a payout too!” Crowley paces and throws his hands into the air.

“I didn’t know. Not for sure,” Doctor Nutter begins and Crowley spins to face her.

“So it’s still conjectured? Tell me this, if this Raphael guy is really somehow my dad, is he still fighting for custody of us?” he demands.

“Of course he is!” Mrs. Nutter yells.

“So you are lying,” Crowley says, satisfied. “My twin has been dead for nearly a calendar year.”

Mrs. Nutter draws back, shocked. “Your… _what_?”

“Ashtoreth passed away of a fever in December last,” he spits, then wraps his arms around himself. “I wasn’t even well enough to know she’d gone. I just… laid there next to her when she died. I didn’t even wake up to kiss her goodbye.”

He touches his cheek and then hugs himself again. Aziraphale does stand then and he gathers his mate back into his arms. Crowley sighs.

“They’re lying, angel. My father died twenty-odd years back,” he says gently.

“If you don’t believe me,” Mrs. Nutter explodes, “write to the Commodore! Hell, I’ll write to him! I’ll make him come here! You can see! You’re identical!”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at her, then turns to his husband. “You’ve met the man. Am I a decent likeness?”

“Forgive me, my love. I was freshly returned from the battlefield and very hazy with painkillers. I only remember thinking it was strange that someone so high in the Royal Navy would bother with visiting hospital when in London,” he admits.

“Nothing to forgive,” Crowley declares and kisses his husband’s cheek. “Now. Enough of this. We have some appointments with our lawyers. I’m sure Shadwell can see you ladies out.”

Mrs. Nutter wipes her eyes and glares at him. “I am no liar.”

“Unfortunately, the doctor is needed here for her report on Lady Fellthrop,” Aziraphale says with a grimace.

Crowley stares at the doctor and she flinches at his expression. “I’m not sure I trust a doctor who allows such lies to be spread as fact.”

Mrs. Nutter leaps up, “I will not allow you to speak of my mate that way! I _am_ your cousin and _you_ are just as stuck up like your mother!”

Crowley’s growl is deep and wild. He nearly leaps forward, but his hip locks up and he sways.Aziraphale grabs him by the waist and pulls him back.

“What did you say?” he roars. “How dare you compare me to that hateful beast! She let my sister die! She wanted to sell me like a common tart! She has no morals! How dare you!”

The door from below stairs opens and Shadwell appears, breathlessly. He’s run at the raised voices. Crowley is trembling now in pure anger. He pants as Aziraphale steps into his line of sight and cups his face with both hands. Crowley leans around him to continue his tirade.

“She orchestrated the extortion of my husband and his siblings. She is directly responsible for the murder of two men. She kidnapped Lady Fellthrop. She threatened my children. How _dare_ you!”

Aziraphale’s voice drops into that deep register that his Omega mind cannot ignore.

“Crowley,” he says.

Crowley fights the need to submit. He glares at the room in general. “I am not like my mother.”

Doctor Nutter is bracing both her hands on the table. “Enough of this. If you cannot calm down, I will sedate you.”

Now it's Aziraphale’s turn to growl. “You will do no such thing. You and your wife will stay in this room until our solicitors arrive. Then you will leave our home.”

Doctor Nutter throws up her hands, “And who will care for Uriel?”

“That is no longer your concern, Agnes. Your story is intriguing, I’ll admit, and I was swept up in its detail. Heavens knows we could use some good news. But, it is curiously timed and riddled with holes.”

Mrs. Nutter sobs, “It’s the truth!”

“Come now, my dear,” Aziraphale demands and guides Crowley from the room.

It’s no graceful exit as his hip is already stiffening again. Crowley is so livid, he barely feels the pain. His mind spins with lies and half-truths. Mostly, however, he is stuck on a single question: _what was his father’s surname?_

He limps over to the pianoforte, Aziraphale still holding most of his weight. He struggles to sit neatly, then opens the lid as his husband stands at his side. He ignores the pain in his back and begins to run his scales. He strikes each note angrily.

_What was his father’s surname?_

The door to the dining room bursts open, even as Shadwell tries to corral Mrs. Nutter. Her wife is threatening to sedate her, but Mrs. Nutter will not be stopped. She practically climbs the butler.

“You were born in the summer! You were the only two that your father didn’t carry—but she sent him to war. He didn’t know it, but he was pregnant! The baby died in childbirth at sea. Her actions qualified as abuse and the courts granted him a divorce!”

Crowley’s fingers freeze, hovering over the keys. Mrs. Nutter continues, shouting. Aziraphale lays his hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“He is a good man!” she ducks under Shadwell’s arm and runs into the saloon. “He called you his hellions—all named for demons because your mother wouldn’t let you have the names he wanted. All except one twin! The only child she ever let him name!”

There are spots dancing around his eyes and a high pitched wail in his ears. Aziraphale’s grip is the only thing tethering him to this moment.

“He named you after his home—the estate where he grew up: Crow Gardens!”

Agnes runs toward Lilith with a teacup, she’s carefully balancing the liquid inside it. “Honey, come here, please.”

“The divorce finalized when you were a little pup. It’s the last time he saw any of you. You came to our grandmother’s house—Zionview Cottage!”

And Aziraphale’s grip on his shoulder tightens even more. “Oh, good Lord,” he whispers. “The red-headed twins at Great Aunt Metatron’s party. There were… so many children there and she was livid.”

“You remember then!” Lilith cries. “You weren’t very big either, but you kept getting in trouble for playing Granny’s piano!”

Aziraphale’s hand is shaking. “Crowley. We’re cousins. Distant, yes, but cousins.”

Agnes is very close to her wife now. “Honey. I’ve got something to calm your nerves.”

Irritated, Lilith holds out her hand for the cup. Agnes smiles and hands it to her. Without a pause, Lilith throws the teacup across the room, sloshing liquid everywhere. Agnes growls at her mate, but Lilith ignores her.

“Your father was…crying. The entire time he was there. I remember,” Aziraphale continues, his voice lost. “I _knew_ you when we were pups.”

“He was denied custody because he was at sea. He kept fighting for you. When he got in contact with… that… what is his name? Your brother! He’s an Alpha and a vicar! Looks like an alligator! He’s fat! He’s married to the most annoying woman on the planet—she _never_ shuts up! Mary! His Omega’s name is Mary!” Lilith shouts.

And Crowley turns slowly. “My brother… Usher?”

Lilith stops moving, breathing hard. “ _Yes_. That’s his bloody name.”

Crowley only stares.

“Uncle Raphael went to see him at seminary several times. He paid for Usher’s wedding,” she says softly. “I was there. You and your sister wore matching blue dresses.”

Crowley thinks about blinking. He really does. He cannot seem to make himself do it though. He and Ash had worn matching blue dresses to Usher and Mary’s wedding. But what if this was a ruse? He couldn’t exactly check with his brother at the moment. And _he’d_ given this woman his brother’s name. He needed proof. Real proof.

_What was his father’s surname?_

“No Alpha would call their mate by their family name,” he says, following that line of thinking. “My mother is cruel, but, she’s also a peer. She uses titles like weapons.”

Agnes has returned with another teacup, but Lilith waves her wife away. “Not now, sweetheart.”

Agnes growls and Crowley shifts closer on the piano stool to his husband. Lilith does not so much as wince.

“It was a jab. My grandfather— _our_ grandfather—was killed in a duel by a Major Francis Samael-Wright. Absolutely no relation, but the Major was convinced that our grandfather has sullied their common name,” Mrs. Nutter explains.

And just like that, Crowley is transported in time to months back when his mother held a dinner party. He hadn’t been invited but he’d chatted with a retired military gentleman… the very man who had killed his grandfather in a duel.

If he wasn’t already sitting down, he’d have fallen.

“My father is alive,” he whispers.

Aziraphale sits beside him, equally shocked. “We’ll write to him… immediately.”

“We’re in mourning,” Crowley answers.

“I don’t care.”

They both look up in surprise when someone knocks at the front door. The solicitors have arrived. Lilith slumps on the sofa like she’s run a marathon.

“You believe me,” she says, relieved.

Crowley can only nod dumbly. Agnes sighs and sets the sedative on the table.

“Introducing Misters Leslie, Azrael, and Tyler,” Shadwell says, looking completely overwhelmed.

His thinning hair is ruffled and it surprises a chuckle out of Crowley. He tries to hide it behind his glove, but Aziraphale hears him. He studies his mate for a moment before smiling and standing to shake hands with the lawyers.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he greets.

“We are very sorry to be here on such an occasion. You have our deepest condolences,” Mr. Leslie admits. “My Maud sends her love and sympathy.”

Aziraphale replies with a tight smile, “May I introduce Doctor Nutter and her wife, Mrs. Nutter. And,” Aziraphale stumbles, his voice suddenly a little tearful, “my most beloved husband, Lord Crowley,” he says with a smile.

Crowley locks eyes with his husband. There is such love there—trying to cover the pain he feels for Crowley’s cruel childhood. Crowley could be angry, but instead, he lets it flow away. He’ll deal with it soon.

He curtsies, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Forgive me, but you need to begin to introduce yourselves with your proper titles,” Mr. Tyler interrupts. “You are now Lord Fellthrop and Omega Lord Fellthrop, respectably.”

Aziraphale grimaces. Crowley takes over, deftly.

“We are giving ourselves some time to grieve. Now, we should continue this in the library,” he suggests and their group all follows his directions.

Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arm and leans on him. He lowers his mouth to his husband’s ear and whispers, “You are _my_ beloved husband. No matter the title. And no matter who my family really is or my connections really are—you are still my adored lover and precious friend.”

Aziraphale helps him limp into the library. “Oh, my treasured mate,” he whispers in reply, “you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

They would continue to say words of love to each other, but there is business to attend to. The sort of business that has his husband suddenly very tightly wound. He leads Crowley to his desk and helps him sit.

“Do you ever think we’ll have a normal day?” he asks as he watches their lawyers spread out documents across the long table across from him.

Once, before they were engaged, Crowley at there and wrote Aziraphale a highly inappropriate note. He watched Aziraphale smell him pheromones for the first time ever while his husband sat in this chair. That was the closest to “normal” they’d had in weeks.

“If we don’t, we’ll run away to London and become booksellers,” Aziraphale says hesitantly. “Although you do not look like you own a bookshop.”

Crowley chuckles, then turns his attention to the solicitors. They’re speaking to Doctor Nutter.

“And you’re sure she is very…unfit?” Mr. Azrael asks.

Doctor Nutter is grieved. “Lady Uriel has lost her mate and has retreated into her own mind. Her actions toward me, even when in the presence of my mate, are highly inappropriate. She demands to be claimed and taken.”

Mr. Tyler looks worriedly between Mrs. Nutter and Crowley. “My dear doctor, there are Omegas present.”

Doctor Nutter is not impressed. “Trust me, Mr. Tyler, both of them know what a claiming includes. They’re both mated, marked, and married.”

Mrs. Nutter takes her wife’s hand and the Doctor covers it with her own. “Lady Uriel seems aware of her pregnancy but speaks about it as if when she delivers Lord Gabriel will return. When reminded that her husband is gone, she simply retreats into herself again. She is… easy to anger, but with the emotions of a child. She has little understanding of what is said to her. She ripped off her clothes when I visited her this morning and tried to scent me and anything she was around.”

“Are you saying that she scented… items?” Mr. Leslie asks, confused.

“The bedposts, a chair, yes,” Agnes answers.

“She scented a bottle of face oil then threw it at me so I’d be scented too,” Mrs. Nutter adds.

“And so Lord Fellthrop’s concerns about another Alpha claiming the child’s fortune are very reasonable,” Mr. Azrael agrees. “Doctor Nutter, in your official opinion, will Lady Uriel be able to care for the child?”

Doctor Nutter sighs and folds and unfolds her wife’s hand. “With supervision? Possibly. It would require a complete team, however. Multiple nannies and nurses. A wet nurse. A nurse for the Lady. She could never be let alone with the infant and… locks would need to be placed in the nursery.

“Locks will need to be placed on her bedroom, too, I’m afraid. She is very violent. She could easily hurt herself if she were to enter the kitchen or a dressing room.”

Mr. Tyler shuffles some papers. “So we’re in agreement then that the custody of the former Lord Fellthrop’s child is transferred to his brother, Lord Aziraphale Herald, the new Marquess of Fellthrop, and his spouse, Omega Lord Crowley Jayanthony-Herald?”

There is much conversation between the lawyers and the doctor. Crowley is completely overwhelmed. He reaches for his husband’s hand.

“Uriel will never be herself again,” he says softly, in confirmation.

“So it seems,” Aziraphale agrees sadly.

“And we are about to have a child.”

“So it seems.”

Crowley swallows, “How many weeks do we have left before we become fathers?”

“About eight weeks,” Agnes answers. “She’s healthy.”

Crowley thinks about blinking. He does not. “When you say ‘she’, do you mean Uriel or the infant?”

The doctor looks at him for a long moment, then returns to the conversation with Mr. Tyler.Crowley feels his heartbeat pound. He feels Aziraphale’s hand in his.

“Well, Papa,” he says raising Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, “maybe we can have a normal day in eight or so weeks.”

Aziraphale just squeezes his hand and looks out the window to hide his tears. Crowley watches the way his face flinches. Deep, deep grief then radiations of joy. He feels the same. For every good piece of news, there is a shadow. He and his husband will have a baby, but only after the loss of the child’s birth parents in one form or another. He will find out his father is alive, but only after learning that his mother lied to him for his entire life. He can have everything he’s ever wanted with the man he loves, but it always comes at a high cost.

Shakespeare was right after all. Fortune’s wheel is very fickle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- Originally, Agnes was going to the great aunt who lived at Zionview Cottage and grew a witch's garden. Also, originally, the doctor was going to be The Doctor (current blonde lady incarnation). That got too complicated.  
> \- There was no police station to go to for crimes. There was, however, a group of for-hire vigilantes.  
> \- Panic attacks are awful. I always write my characters' attacks like my own. All visual and auditory tune out and pure overwhelmed senses.  
> \- Fancy Omega Adrenaline drop or just plain shock? You decide. Same treatment, except don't have sex with someone who is in shock. They totally cannot consent. I couldn't put the boys through that so...  
> \- Teeth were a sensitive topic back in the day. For one, tooth powder was mostly an abrasive that folks rubbed onto their teeth with pig hair brushes. (Yes. Really.) The upper class had more cavities because they could afford sweets and booze. And poor people would have their teeth pulled for money and then rich folks would buy these teeth and have them added to their mouth. Only that was highly ineffectual for years... so, basically, dentistry at the time sucked.  
> \- Shakespeare referred to Fortune's wheel often. That particular quote comes from Henry V.  
> \- Soap balls! This is proof that people had too much money-- they'd have a metal sphere to hold their very spherical soap inside of.  
> \- Mourning weeds were something for the very rich also. Folks dyed existing clothes black and then accessorized with shawls and hats in black. That whole one year plus a day in black thing started about this time period but was very en vogue with Queen Victoria. She was a psycho about her dear Albert. Do you think I'm kidding? She made servants lay and dust his suit every day. She slept with his after-death photo and his pocket watch. For. Years. Like forty plus years.  
> \- Women were seen as too emotional and too delicate to attend funeral services. Emotional outbursts were inappropriate in society. Obviously, some of the crap that's gone down in this story would be completely unacceptable--I'm talking like kissing in public, not beating your brother with a cane. That's not on.  
> \- Burial grounds were not consecrated ground, according to C of E. Jews, Quakers, Muslims, and Catholics (less so them, by the way, but some) were buried there. Also, quick note, people who were deemed "evil" (or committed suicide) would be buried at the cross-roads, as it was thought that their evil would be dissolved into four directions.  
> \- Commodore Raphael J. (ayanthony) Samael of the HMS Afreet (which means evil spirit) is in fact just a nice guy who worked his way through the ranks, proving that Omegas are badasses and that gender is a construct.  
> \- Speaking of Daddy!Raph, divorce was incredibly hard to prove for women. She would need documentation that her husband had cheated on her. That was... pretty much the only option she was allowed. Now, he could send her away for "instability" or divorce her on grounds of "immodesty" (which could be interpreted in a number of ways and totally was). Remember that women not allowed to be alone with a man unless she had personal business, but most of the solicitors would try to convince her to go home to her husband  
> \- Lady Burningstone is literally the cruelest human I've ever written. She was supposed to be this apathetic person (so was Aziraphale's mom), thus paralleling them to the angels'/demons' mom God. As I've said time and again, this story has not followed my plotting plan.  
> \- Agnes is much like Aziraphale. She's an ally in the breakdown of society's beliefs, but she's also been jettisoned ahead by being an Alpha. "Calm down or I'll sedate you" is a great show of this. I wanted it to be a foil to her earlier worries about hormone crashes--she cares. She disagrees with society, but she still slips up. I find myself in this same position often as a cis white lady trying to be a good human. Like the Alphas in the story, I hope we can see our biases and change/grow.  
> \- Crow Gardens! What a mysterious place! We should totally go there in a future chapter! I'm writing it here so I remember.  
> \- Yes, A & C are cousins... totally normal then. Remember Mansfield Park? Fanny and Edward were raised as siblings practically, but they were cousins sooooo "let's get it on!!!" Also, it was a smaller world at this time. They're all growing up within an hour's ride of Tadfield. They would have bumped into each other at some point anyway.  
> \- THE DUELING GRANDDAD RETURNS!  
> \- Mourners did not receive guests. There were some exceptions and Crowley's father would totally be one.  
> \- Uriel is about to be a casualty of the system. I just didn't want to kill anyone else.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 is being weird. This page keeps freezing on me!

It is said that the Alpha has an innate awareness of their surroundings. They sense emotions and smells and threats. They keep their mate, offspring, and den safe from these instincts. It is also said that these evolutionary features can be dimmed by trauma or heightened emotions.

It’s the reason no one would ever knock on a den during an Omegas mate’s heat or why no one would attempt to scent a newborn child before the Alpha parent. Dimmed awareness makes a dangerous Alpha. Grief clouds these senses.

Aziraphale cannot express how off-kilter he is. Every moment is experienced seconds after it occurs. It’s like he’s watching his own life through a veil.

“—former Lord Fellthrop was as equally large as your father and, if I remember correctly, we needed great qualities of lilies for him. I would suggest no fewer than thirty—“

Some funeral furnisher is explaining. It seems… idiotic. Aziraphale tries to concentrate on his words, but they’re too stupid to even think about. Crowley sits at his side, listening to his babble.

“—you think, Lord Fellthrop?”

Aziraphale inhales. He's supposed to respond. But what about? Crowley studies his profile, takes his husband’s hand in his own, and addresses the odious little man.

“I believe, Mr. Ormerod, that you are playing on my husband’s grief. You quote us, hmm, each lily is twelve shillings? I could have fine silk stockings for that price. You would have us spend… ” he clearly does the sum in his head, “ _eighteen_ pounds! No, Mr. Ormerod, I will not spend half an Omega’s annual pin money for flowers. You line your pocket, sir, from others’ grief,” he reprimands sternly and allows his sunglasses to slide down his nose.

Ormerod must see those beautiful eyes some way different than Aziraphale does because he jumps back.

“Your—your eyes are those of a snake, sir!” he cries.

“I’ve always been told a demon, so a serpent is an improvement,” Crowley drawls, leaning forward threateningly. “Now, Mr. Ormerod, how many lilies will we _really_ need?”

Aziraphale wants to laugh somehow, but it’s certainly past the time when that would be appropriate. Time slithers past and he lets it go. Crowley, for all his years hidden in his bedroom, remains an excellent judge of character. Absently, Aziraphale wonders if Crowley’s years with no one to trust has made him jaded toward people. He certainly did not accept Mrs. Nutter’s testimony about the Commodore initially. He also immediately assumes that Ormerod is an untrustworthy salesman.

Ormerod stutters and redacts his sums on the paper before them. Gabriel’s funeral price is slashed. The number is still a high tally and some of that is due to the items Crowley will not be moved on.

“We have no need to pay someone to sit with Lord Fellthrop—the former. We will sit the vigil,” he states, “in our family chapel.”

“That’s not the way it’s done, my lord,” Ormerod argues.

Crowley raises a dramatic eyebrow and pulls off his sunglasses. He tosses them onto the table atop the pile of documents. “I understand that this is not the way Earls and Marquesses before have honored their peers, but we’re not going to take my brother-in-law to St. Matthew’s. The vicar there was his sister—who stabbed him. Therefore, forgive me my impertinence, but Mr. Ormerod, we are paying you to make it happen— _so make it happen_.”

“But, Lord Crowley—“

“Forgive me, sir,” Crowley hisses, “I am Omega Lord Fellthrop.”

The man stutters, “Oh, oh, yes sir. I mean the amount of black baize required to line the chapel would be a very high price!”

Crowley does not blink. “So cover less of the room, sir.”

Ormerod gives some sort of reply before bowing and escaping their library at a run. Crowley watches him go without rising to see him off.

“What a prat,” he grumbles before kissing Aziraphale’s hand. “I am sorry he said some of those things, angel.”

Aziraphale cannot for the life of him remember anything the man said. “Oh, it’s all tickety boo, my dear,” he says absently.

Crowley studies him closely and presses his palm to Aziraphale’s forehead. “Are you feeling all right, angel?”

Aziraphale leans into his touch. “I’m right as rain.”

Crowley hums, disbelievingly. “Sit with me for a while?”

Aziraphale frowns. He should get up and begin to sort out Gabriel’s office. However, he is slow to disagree and Crowley must accept it as some sort of acquiescence. He forces Aziraphale to lay his head on his shoulder. Like some spell, the Alpha closes his eyes. Once he does, Crowley begins to purr.

He must doze, for when he blinks awake, Crowley has moved them on the sofa. He now slouches in a very ungentlemanly manner and has manhandled his husband to lay across his lap. Aziraphale rubs his cheek on Crowley’s trousers and tries to sit up.

“Erm, ngk, wait for a second, angel. My skein is all tangled—“ Crowley mutters several quiet curses.

His yarn skein is tucked into Aziraphale’s waistcoat, where it’s held steady. Aziraphale follows the yarn up across his own chest, past his ear, and up to where Crowley is knitting.

He’s a beauty.

He’s a beauty who is stitching tiny booties.

Tiny booties that will be worn by their baby. And if that doesn’t make Aziraphale’s heart race, then nothing will.

“How did you rest, angel?” Crowley asks, glaring at the knitting pattern book that lays on the sofa arm.

The question helps him center himself. Time realigns itself and the veil pulls back. Aziraphale sighs in relief, but it grows into a yawn. Crowley chuckles and a slow purr pours from him anew. Aziraphale sits up carefully as he touches the line of yarn.

“I didn’t mean to drift off, to be honest. I am terribly sorry to have left you alone,” he admits.

Crowley shrugs, unbothered.

“My dear, how are you getting on?” Aziraphale asks as he studies the knitted blob dangling from Crowley’s knitting needles.

“I’ve lost count of stitches at least twice and I think there will be holes where their little toes are going to stick out of, so not great,” Crowley admits with a scowl.

Aziraphale bites his lip to keep from laughing. Crowley is so earnest. He frowns at his knitting and drops it into his lap. The needles clack together as they fall.

“Has the post come?” he asks, studying Crowley’s face.

“Shadwell came through with the morning batch some time ago,” Crowley says as if it’s nothing worth noting. “Nothing from Usher or the Commodore.”

“It’s early yet,” Aziraphale says and pulls the skein from his waistcoat. “Your brother will have received the post by now, but the London bound letter might still need a day or two.”

Crowley smiles at this reassurance and picks up his sad little bootie and needles again. Aziraphale listens to the click of the needles and the hitches in Crowley’s purr when he drops a stitch or forgets his pattern. He leans against Aziraphale with a look of utter concentration.

Aziraphale feels a surge of relief that his lie has gone unnoticed. It’s a gentle, white lie to help bolster his husband’s spirits. Aziraphale will lie every single day if he has to. For when it came time for Crowley to send the correspondence, he was in a state. He wrote four letters for the Commodore. Each had different words, but each had the same question: _do you really want me?_ He’d brought them each to his mate and asked which he should send.

“I don’t want to sound like a loon,” he had admitted. “Just choose one that makes me seem less like I’m destined for the madhouse and post it.”

Aziraphale had—two days ago. And as time passes, the hope in Crowley’s eyes dims. It is heartbreaking. Every day, those old lies from his childhood at Tophet are reinforced. But here he is knitting little things for their incoming pup. Hope is not completely lost.

“Have you been to see Uriel today?” Aziraphale asks.

“We spent the morning together,” Crowley frowns. “She only threw a shoe at me today.”

Aziraphale nods impressed. “Has her aim improved?”

“Not in the least,” Crowley notes. “Anyway, the point is, she was polite for a while, then angry for a while, then she, you know,” he waves his hand and allows his face to assume the stupor daze that Uriel too often shows.

“But before she…” again he flutters his hand, “drifted off, she told me I should feel the baby. I put my hand here,” he says and reaches back to place his hand on Aziraphale’s abdomen. “And they kicked me!”

There is such wonder in his voice. It makes Aziraphale’s heart accelerate.

“I figured they’ll need booties with such active little feet,” Crowley looks back at the monstrosity of wool yarn in his hands and frowns. “Perhaps I’ll start again.”

Aziraphale slides from the sofa and kneels in front of his husband. He reaches up and places his hand on Crowley’s stomach, where he’d apparently touched Uriel.

“Here?” he asks softly.

Crowley tosses his needles onto the sofa and covers Aziraphale’s hand with both of his own. “Right here. And they kicked.”

There is no swell under their hands. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s corded muscle and flat stomach through his waistcoat. Yet, in a similar way, this is where their child kicked for his husband. He lets his eyes fall closed and pretends that he is able to make his mate a parent in truth.

The different grief settles over him and he frowns heavily. One of Crowley’s hands lifts off his own and cups the back of Aziraphale’s neck. He’s done is so often to his Omega, but Crowley has never returned the gesture. His eyes fly open. Crowley is watching him, knowingly.

“Our child is healthy and strong,” he reminds. “I can’t carry them. I’m sorry. But they’re ours. You have weeks, angel, to get over this down-in-the-mouth-everytime-you-think-I-can’t-see-you-but-you-remember-we-can’t-get-pregnant nonsense,” he says, softly but sternly.

“You were so determined before,” Aziraphale argues. “You wanted to see some doctor in London—“

“I did. And we still can if you want that, angel. Or we can adopt half a workhouse, I don’t care. I just don’t want you to regret something that is not currently in your control.”

Aziraphale sags. Crowley’s hand presses his harder against his neck. “I could take you up and let you see if they’ll kick for you? You could say ‘hello’ and introduce them to their Papa?”

Aziraphale lets the daydream wash over him. His hands on her rounded belly and telling the infant inside that he was its Papa. And then a horrible thought crashes over him. Had Gabriel done that? Had he laid his large hands on his mate’s middle and cooed “hello, I’m your Papa”? If so, would the infant wonder why their Uncle Aziraphale was trying to be their Papa? Would they miss Gabriel’s voice and touch?

Aziraphale jumps up as if burned. He pulls his hands back and stumbles to his feet. “Forgive me, I have quite forgotten myself. I have affairs to attend to!”

“Angel?” Crowley asks, worriedly.

“I’ll see you for tea. Mind how you go!”

He rushes from the library as a man hunted. He pauses in the saloon and watches the servants rearrange the furniture. They preparation a clear path for the arrival of the coffin and body—from the front door to the family chapel.

The door to the library opens and Crowley stands in the doorway, sunglasses back in place. “Angel?”

Crowley approaches and touches his elbow. Aziraphale jerks away and Crowley retracts his hand, frowning.

“I need air!” he exclaims and rushes toward the door, wringing his hands. “Just a quick jaunt!”

Crowley pursues him and, when he stops at the door for his coat, takes him firmly again by the elbow.

“Aziraphale, wait. Do you not want to have this baby?” he asks, his voice pitched soft but hesitant.

He yanks off his sunglasses and stares at his husband. His eyes are wide and Aziraphale reads fear and disappointment there.

“I just need air,” Aziraphale argues and dashes out the door with his coat in hand.

He expects Crowley to chase him. To some degree, secretly, he wishes he would. However, he strides down the pebble path unaccompanied. The day is bright and his pace is quick. He swings his coat onto his shoulders as he makes his way down into the terraced gardens in moments. Nothing will stop his stride. He hops down the stairs and marches across the lawn. Sheep cluster together and watch him pass wearily. He jumps the ha-ha and circumvents the ponds. The wilderness lays ahead of him. He takes the first path he sees and walks it blindly.

His mind hums with questions and anxiety. What would Gabriel have wanted? How would Uriel react to her brother-in-law being her child’s father? Would she escalate from throwing shoes? Would she break down further? Could Crowley handle the stress of parenting with his own family issues? Could he himself?

The loop takes him around the estate. In time, he finds a bench and sits. He concentrates on his thoughts and when these seem to overwhelm him, his breathing. Finally calm, he makes his way back to the house.

Shadwell meets him at the door, “Lord Fellthrop, I hope you enjoyed your walk, my lord. The coffin maker has sent word that they’ll be along tomorrow early—apparently, the law has held your brother’s body for some reason. And Omega Lord Fellthrop asked you to join him in the library.”

Aziraphale shrugs off his coat and fidgets with his tailcoat lapels. “Er, yes, thank you, Shadwell.”

The butler opens the door to the library for him, but the room is empty when Aziraphale enters. A caustic smoke scents the room and the Alpha wrinkles his nose. He draws near the fireplace and sees the reason. Crowley has thrown the misshapen booties and knitting needles into the flames. The wool yarn crackles and smokes.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale laments and considers pulling the slag from the wood.

It is clearly too far gone, he admits to himself. He worries his hands and exits the room. The saloon has been reset since his walk, although the black fabric is draped in garlands along the grand staircase. No doubt the chapel is completely covered as well. Everywhere he looks death lingers.

Suddenly, even the smell of burnt wool is related to death. Has he killed off their dream of a family? It’s overwhelming. With that in mind, he decides on his destination.

The lord’s suite is a large bedroom with two smaller dressing rooms attached. Aziraphale has not entered since he was a small child and it was his mother and father’s den. Now, it boasts a lock to keep Uriel in and safe. It’s already unlatched, as he assumed it would be. He pushes the door open.

Uriel lays across the padded bench under the window. Her eyes study the distant fields. She’s only dressed in a shift and it’s rolled up under her breasts. Crowley sits at her hip and rubs oil onto her belly. The nurse they’ve hired sits in a nearby armchair, resting her eyes. Crowley looks up when Aziraphale opens the door, then returns to his task.

“So the mighty Lord Fellthrop has come to claim his prize,” Uriel sneers. “Going to take the cub and the den? Why not take the mate too?”

Crowley’s lip curls in warning, but he does not reply. Uriel glares at him in return.

“What? Won’t share your mate?” Uriel asks Crowley.

He stops rubbing at her stretch marks. “He’s my husband, Uriel.”

She simply hums and swings her dark legs over the bench and onto Crowley’s lap. Her ankles are swollen. Crowley takes one after the other and rubs them.

“Why so shocked? Your beloved husband is taking the spoils of his brother’s nest,” she taunts. “C’mon now, Aziraphale, won’t you claim what’s willingly given?”

She pulls her shift and tries to divest herself of it, but Crowley grabs the hem and pulls it back down. Aziraphale steps back into the hall and averts his eyes.

He tries to explain himself, “I just came to check on—“

However, Uriel is ready to defend her den. She gives a shriek and launches herself at Crowley. He must expect it, because he rolls with her on the bench, neatly avoiding her tearing fingernails and biting teeth. The nurse rushes over and grabs Uriel by the arms. Aziraphale finds himself immobile and unable to help.

“Come now, Lady Uriel!” the nurse chides. “We must contain our baser natures!”

“I will dash this child’s head on a stone! I will kill off your brother’s offspring! I am a strong Omega and will be a good mate!” Uriel screams to Aziraphale, throwing her head back to expose her throat.

She tries to gather her scent oil on her fingers, but Crowley grabs her hands and pulls them back. The nurse hurries to her bag for a sedative.

“I can bear you children! I will take your knot!” she continues.

The nurse returns with a liquid in a spoon and she sits on Uriel to hold her down. Crowley continues to wrestle her arms as Uriel screeches. The sedative is slow to work and Crowley and the nurse restrain her down all the while. Her eyes turn glassy and her muscles relax. Uriel falls limply on the bench, a drugged smile hanging on her lips.

“Right, well, that was a thing,” Crowley says to the nurse.

The nurse glares at him and then turns on Aziraphale.

“You were told not to come in here without your mate!” she rebukes him.

“I did,” Aziraphale argues, gesturing to his husband.

The nurse looks between Crowley and him, then suddenly blanches. She gives a deep curtsy while avoiding eye contact.

“Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t know you were Lord Fellthrop.”

Aziraphale gives her a distorted smile. It’s completely fake, but it’s all he can manage. He isn’t Lord Fellthrop—not in his heart. He enters the room and cups the back of his husband’s neck.

“Crowley,” he says softly.

He’s not sure how to continue. Does he apologize first or explain himself? Crowley seems uninterested in both. He straightens Uriel’s shift and wraps a blanket around her shoulders. Then he grabs Aziraphale’s other hand and presses it to her middle.

Her skin is firm in a way he did not expect. It’s like a stone. His hand is pressed between it and Crowley’s unrelenting, bony fingers.

“Little one,” Crowley says, “your Father’s brother is here. He’s your Papa.”

Aziraphale looks quickly at his husband. Crowley continues to stare at their conjoined hands.

“Don’t be shy now,” he continues speaking to her abdomen. “Come over and talk to him. He loves you so much. Just like your Mama and your Father. Just like me.”

Tears gather in Aziraphale’s eyes and he has to close them against the rush of feeling. Just then, under his hand, there is movement. Like a creature swimming through deep water, he feels the child shift.

“They had the hiccups earlier, didn’t you, little one?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale can only struggle to catch his breath. Crowley looks over at him knowingly.

“Say hello, Papa,” he commands gently.

With a cracking voice, Aziraphale says, “Hello, my little love. You are very precious to me.”

The room is very still around them. Uriel breaths deeply and smacks her lips. There is another shift in her belly as the child moves.

“Your Father is gone now, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale continues, his voice shattering with tears. “He didn’t want to leave you, but he had to. But you mustn’t fear. We will keep your Mama and you safe. You’re our darling pup. And your… oh, Crowley, my dear, what are we calling you?”

Crowley meets his eyes with a soft look. “Beelzebub once told me that they called my father ‘Omba’, it seems… right.”

Aziraphale flexes his fingers against Crowley’s neck possessively. Then he turns again to where their hands touch Uriel’s waist.

“Your Omba loves you so much, too. We’re so excited to meet you—but we’re so sad too. Please don’t judge us too harshly for our tears,” he says through his own. He’s nearly babbling when he continues, “Your Mama is sick and your Father is gone. And you Aunt Michael and Uncle Sandalphon too… we’re very sad. And very excited. We do love you so much.”

And then he lifts his hand away to cover his mouth and stifle his sobs. Uriel sighs and stretches. Crowley takes his husband around the waist and guides them from the room. Aziraphale can no longer contain his weeping. It drives through him like a storm. Crowley leads him to their den and sits him in their nest. Wrapped in his husband’s arms, he gives up once more to his grief.

His sadness drains him. Crowley seems to expect it and tries to comfort him. He smooths his hand down Aziraphale’s back and rests his cheek on his hair. An hour or two passes. There is an unspoken deadline Aziraphale feels in his bones, but he cannot tell where the restlessness comes from.

“I have to get up and see to the accounts,” Aziraphale says with a tear-roughed voice.

Crowley touches his cheek when Aziraphale pulls away from his embrace. “That’s my job,” he says as if uncomfortable to assert his role in their household.

Aziraphale rubs his face. “Usually, yes, but it seems that Gabriel had taken it over when Uriel became pregnant.”

“Oh yes, the pregnant Omega can no longer do maths,” Crowley grumbles before dragging himself out of bed.

“I wouldn’t turn down your company,” he finally says as he watches his husband fidget by the fireplace.

Crowley pulls at his cuffs then scuffs the toe of his boot. “You sure, angel? You had no interest in me being with you on your walk.”

Aziraphale climbs out of their nest and smooths his waistcoat. “I needed a moment to myself.”

Crowley continues to stare at the floor. “The prospect of being a father in better in theory than reality, eh?” he asks, bitterly.

Aziraphale sighs, tired, and leans on the post of the bed. “It’s not that, my dear.”

He pauses to collect his thoughts then moves to the washbasin and pours water from the pitcher into the bowl. “I suppose I am struggling with the reality that I am stepping into my brother’s life. I’ve taken his title, his house, his child. Beyond that, I think I’m grieving our inability to conceive. I would love to see the child we could make. I feel guilty about the excitement of wanting Gabriel’s child as my own. And Uriel, good Lord, that poor woman. How can I not lament her losses?”

He leans over the basin and splashes his face. His eyes still feel gritty, but the water helps. Crowley waits for him to wipe his skin dry with the bath flannel.

“You’re not taking on his life, angel,” Crowley says softly. “I can see how you feel that way. But you can’t feel guilty about the baby. Uriel cannot care for a child. She’s not capable of caring for herself—she’s delusional. This morning, she talked about finding Gabriel in a fairy ring.”

“It’s not her fault,” Aziraphale argues, earnestly.

Crowley nods. “I know. Which is why I spend so much time with her, but, you need to know, angel, she’s hateful. All that modesty was a sham. She’s crass and cruel. No child should be raised that way. Trust me.”

Crowley’s voice is despondent for a moment, but then he shakes himself. Aziraphale wants to comfort him, but Crowley is already moving for the door out of their den.

“Let’s go see to these accounts, then.”

Aziraphale follows him out. Crowley waits for him in the hall and walks at his side. His hip is clearly struggling to hold him up. His lower half swaggers to compensate. Aziraphale watches him, torn between bemusement and attraction. Before he can decide, humor is lost. Aziraphale sees the black fabric draped over the banisters and he chastises himself. How can he laugh at a time like this? How can he be happy in this sadness?

Crowley is steady at his side, even when he gasps at the sight. “Angel?”

“How did you get through alone?” he asks, his voice rough again. “After you lost your sister?”

Crowley considers this as they descend the stairs. “I was ill when she passed. When I knew she was gone, I just… wept. And slept. Then it was just a matter of getting used to being alone. I didn’t have to do things for her anymore—she was blind, did you know that? Completely lost her sight at sixteen.”

“I remember. The first time I saw you both, she needed you to read to her,” he replies, looking up to the hallway where he’d originally stumbled upon them.

“Ashtoreth hated that. She loved books,” Crowley says affectionately. He seems lost in his train of thought for a moment. When he next speaks, it’s with a gentle tone. “You’ll learn how to get on someday. I won’t let you do it alone.”

“I’m sorry you had to, my dear,” Aziraphale laments.

Crowley touches his arm. “I’m here, Aziraphale. It wasn’t pleasant, but it made me who I am. I’m here and I’ll help you through it too.”

They reach the bottom of the steps and Aziraphale studies his mate. “I’m not myself, my dear. I feel… all out of sorts.”

Crowley nods, knowingly. “That’s grief.”

“I seem to be missing information,” he continues, “although I am sure I was told it.”

“Such as?”

“The time of my brother’s and Sandalphon’s funerals?”

Crowley rubs his gloved fingertips down his throat. “Sandalphon’s family have taken his body to his family’s parish. The funeral will be tomorrow. We were not invited.”

“Oh.”

“We could go and stand along the road if you’d like?”

“No. No, that’s completely unacceptable; I will not disrespect their wishes. We’ll… send a note, or something,” Aziraphale fusses with his waistcoat as he makes his way across the saloon.

“As for Gabriel, he’ll arrive tomorrow morning and we’ll sit vigil overnight. Then, the day after tomorrow, he’ll be laid to rest.”

Aziraphale’s steps falter. “How will Uriel take it?”

Crowley plucks at the fingertips of his gloves. “I expect she will not do well. I think she should see him here at the house, but not attend the service. I’m not sure she could make it without…” he waves his hand, “taking leave of her senses.”

Aziraphale nods, slowly. “I am sure that you are correct.”

He takes another step and finds himself in front of the Marquess of Fellthrop’s study. In it is the Marquess of Fellthrop’s desk. Once, it was his father’s desk in his father’s study. Then it became his brother’s desk in his brother’s study. It goes with the title, not the man. Every iota of his being pulses with the knowledge that he is about to take over the study.

It is not something that he wants. It’s as if it’s haunted by Gabriel’s leather-scented ghost. Crowley takes his hand.

“Shall I fetch the account books and we look them over in the library?”

“No, dear boy, that would be useless. It’s just a room. It’s time that I face the music, as it were,” Aziraphale decides and opens the door.

For all his brave face, Aziraphale finds that he is angry in conjunction with his guilt. He was never groomed for this role. He was the dutiful soldier. He went to war on the back of a horse and came home damaged, but respected. People knew about his courage and victories. The Marquess of Fellthrop dealt with local voting and organizing laws. He spoke to the House of Lords and hosted galas. This could not be further removed from Aziraphale’s placement in the world. He did not have those skills.

As he scans the study, he feels the swirl of this rebellious anger. He did his duty! He was supposed to be able to read books and drink wine and watch his husband play the pianoforte. Instead, he’s barging into his brother’s den to touch his sister-in-law’s belly and call their child his own. He closes his eyes against these dark thoughts.

Crowley guides him into the room and looks at him carefully. Aziraphale can think of nothing but the assaulting scent of leather that gathers around him.

“Right,” Crowley declares before he settles Aziraphale in one of the winged chairs before the great desk. He rings the bell and Wensleydale answers quickly. “Hey, buddy. We need a fire in here, please.”

“Of course, my lord!”

The footman disappears and Crowley goes to sit at Gabriel’s desk. Aziraphale frowns at it. He was too preoccupied the last time he was in this room, but he’s certain that his brother’s desk has never been as disorganized before. Papers and invoices are scattered all around.

Crowley lifts several bills and reads them before setting them down again. He finds the green leather-bound household account book and opens it.

“Ah, bless it,” he growls.

“My dear?” Aziraphale asks, uncomfortably.

“The ledgers haven’t been tallied in,” Crowley points to a line on the page, “five months. It looks like that’s about when Gabriel took them over from Uriel. She had things in hand, I believe. But then,” here Crowley gives a long whistle. “Maths were not his strong suit.”

Aziraphale stands and moves to read over his husband’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Crowley’s finger underlines a specific portion of the accounts. “Either he was intentionally doing bad sums to hide spending or he couldn’t subtract.”

Sure enough, the figures do not equate.

“And then he got behind on his upkeep, I bet,” Crowley conjectures, lifting bill after bill. “I don’t think he’s paid any bill in months.”

Aziraphale frets. “Can you be certain? What if he’s made payments and we pay them a second time?”

The door opens. The housemaid Peggy enters and tends to the fire. Wensleydale follows her, and he lights candles and opens curtains. Crowley considers the papers and begins to orchestrate them into piles. There are so many that the desktop is not large enough to accommodate his work.

“Wensleydale, we’re going to do some redecorating. You’re going to need a friend!”

And so he begins. Aziraphale is helpless to do anything but watch the footman deliver the long table from the library along with his roll-top desk from the same place. Crowley then begins to pile bills at a frenzied rate on the long table.

“What can I do?” Aziraphale finally asks.

Crowley looks up from the page he’s reading and grins. “Oh, you can start writing, angel!”

He shoves two letters at his husband. “These are from Gabriel’s London clubs. I need you to write them and cancel his memberships. I know it will be difficult,” he says, suddenly less manic, “but it needs to be done.”

Aziraphale takes the letters dutifully, settles at his roll-top desk, and sets to work. He answers each letter genteelly. He regrets to inform the clubs of the loss of their member, his brother. He’s barely even thinking. The words just flow out of him along with his signature. He folds each letter and addresses it.

Behind him, Crowley has sorted the bills into monthly piles. “June…June… April? Wait. Where are the invoices from April?”

He scrambles over to the desk and roots in all the drawers. He retrieves bill after bill from each drawer. He carries this new sheaf of papers to the long table and sets to organizing them.

“Do you think your brother would have placed invoices anywhere else?” he asks, worried.

Aziraphale cannot help the uncertainty in his tone. “Forgive me, my dear, I do not know. Although, perhaps we should check Uriel’s desk too.”

Crowley nods and finishes organizing the papers he has. “Where is that?”

Aziraphale looks in the direction of the far wall. “The Pink Room.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I’ve lived here how long and I didn’t even know that was a thing?”

“I’m not sure how often Uriel used it, so it may be a little dusty,” Aziraphale can’t help but smile. “I’ll show you anyway.”

Gabriel’s study—or rather, _his_ study—connects to a small parlor dressed in pink silk. The chaises, the chairs, the carpet, the drapes, the pole screen in front of the fireplace, and the walls all reflect the rosy hue. The room opens also into the Billiard’s Room, but Gabriel had ordered a tapestry hung over the door to disguise the entrance.

Crowley turns around the room slowly and gives a low whistle. “Someone had a favorite color.”

Aziraphale chuckles, trying to see it through his eyes. “My grandmother. Before that, this was called the ‘ladies’ parlor’ or so forth. It’s your office now if you’d like it.”

Crowley has pulled off his sunglasses to look at the pink and gold ceiling, but now he gapes at Aziraphale. He’s shocked. Aziraphale thinks back on his words, curious where he lost his mate.

“This is… mine?” the Omega asks, his voice quaking strangely.

Aziraphale hurries to touch his elbow. “My dear? I’m sorry, I know it’s not your style. I’d be happy to get you space elsewhere—“

“No, no it’s perfect, angel. It’s perfect… it’s _mine_. I’ve never,” he clears his throat. “I’ve never had someplace that was just mine before.”

In the middle of this dark hell of grief, Crowley’s wonder once more pierces Aziraphale’s sadness. Suddenly, he wants to scent his husband.

“Of course it’s yours, my dear boy,” he finds himself saying. “We can have it redone to better match your desires—“

Crowley spins to face him and throws his arms around his neck. “Thank you, angel.”

Aziraphale holds him close and gives over to the instinct. He pulls on the lace of one of his cuffs until it falls away. Affectionately, he smears his scent oil onto his husband’s temple. Crowley’s purr roars out of him and he ducks his head bashfully.

“Someday, when the finances are settled, perhaps we can tone down the obscene amount of pink in here,” Crowley says through his purr of pleasure.

“Of course,” Aziraphale agrees and pulls back to see his face.

Crowley’s eyes shine. “My darling, if I’d known it would make you this happy, I would have shown it to you long ago.”

“You were going to show me the Cottage. You would have made me just as happy,” he assures him, but his eyes lose some of the sparkle.

“Yes. Indeed,” Aziraphale offers succinctly. He parses each word out as if they are complete statements. They hold the sadness and disappointment that these last days have brought with them. “It seems anytime we were to have a joyous occasion, something terrible accompanied it. Our meeting. Our wedding. Our first tour of our home.”

Crowley’s purr peters out and the room is hollow without it. Aziraphale sighs and rubs his face. “Perhaps we have ill luck.”

“Or perhaps our families are simply self-centered,” Crowley argues. “Or perhaps Fortune is going to spin her wheel again soon and our future will be better.”

He smiles at Aziraphale and separates from him to collect his scent cuff. Crowley holds it to his nose while maintaining eye contact with his husband.

“I never much cared for pears,” he comments, inhaling. His eyelashes flutter as he does. When he next opens his yellow eyes, their dilated. “I was an idiot.”

Aziraphale swallows and holds his hand out for his mate. The Omega comes to him and, once tucked into Aziraphale’s chest, he laces the cuff back onto his Alpha’s wrist. Once complete, Aziraphale leads him over to Uriel’s desk. It’s neat but in an absent fashion. It’s not been straightened for the sake of order, it’s lacking anything to organize.

Crowley nuzzles Aziraphale’s chin then slips out of his arms to hunts through the desk drawers. He finds no missing invoices. He does locate Uriel’s calling cards. He turns them over in his hands.

“If we ever go to town,” he says as he holds one up for Aziraphale to read, “I’d like my own.”

Aziraphale takes the card from him and drops it on the desk. He captures Crowley’s now empty hand and kisses the back of it. “As many as you’d like, my love.”

Amused, Crowley drops the rest of the cards onto the desk. “Are yours covered in tartan, angel?”

“It is very stylish,” Aziraphale replies, primly.

He thinks the calling cards he had printed before he left for war and how he’s not handed a single one out since then.

Crowley bumps shoulders with him as they leave the Pink Room. “It absolutely isn’t.”

Once they cross the threshold into the study, tension reenters Aziraphale’s shoulders. He looks at the piles of papers and fidgets.

“Do you have a plan, then, my dear?”

Crowley hums and grabs the first pile. “March is when Uriel stopped consistently keeping the accounts, as far as I can tell. I’d say, we go through each month and collect the invoices according to the merchant.”

Aziraphale takes the first bill off the pile in Crowley’s hand. “Very well.”

Crowley and he work in silence. Some piles are tall, while others only hold one sheet of paper. Aziraphale glances through the bills, “Some of these carried the same balance for months.”

Crowley looks over several piles, “I’m sure several merchants would be happy to have our cheque in the post.”

“I’m hesitant, Crowley, to begin sending moneys.”

“As am I. Who is to say that the balance in this book,” and here he taps the green leather account ledger, “is even close to correct? Besides, you and I know that house party when we met must have cost a fortune. Was it paid at the time? Do we have other unknown expenses? And, on top of that, have the bills been paid for the household staff?”

Aziraphale lurches backward at the thought, “Are you suggesting that they’ve not been paid?”

Crowley’s eyes widen at the suggestion, “Oh, damn it. I was thinking more along the lines of had their bills been paid?—grocers and candlesticks and such. We need to find out.”

“The agent,” Aziraphale groans and places his face in his hands. “Has he been paid? Have the rents been collected?”

Crowley walks behind him and squeezes both Aziraphale’s shoulders. He kisses the nape of his neck where his curls touch his cravat.

“Let’s write him and the bankers. Then we’ll call for Shadwell and Cook. We’ll get this sorted out, angel.”

Aziraphale looks between his fingers, “First, we must find the cashbox.”

They find the locked brass and wood eyesore in Gabriel’s— _his_ —desk. Aziraphale pulls Gabriel’s ring of keys from his pocket and searches for the correct one. The box holds enough money for the servants to be paid for the next three weeks.

“Thank heavens for that,” Aziraphale breathes. “We’ll have to visit London after that, I’m afraid.”

Crowley’s excitement sparks and he tries to tramp it down, but it’s apparent even to Aziraphale. “I can accompany you?”

“I’d very much like for you to,” he admits.

Crowley beams. His purr is quiet and warm, but it settles something in Aziraphale.

“Let me finish these letters to Mr. Thoushalt and Coutts and Co, then we’ll take tea in the drawing-room.”

Crowley kisses the top of his head. “I’m going to check on Uriel.”

“Bring my book from the bedside, if you will?”

“Of course, angel.”

And he slips out of the study. Aziraphale settles at his roll-top desk and begins his correspondence. When the letters are all folded and ready for the post, he carries the pile of them with him into the drawing-room, where he rings the bell.

Shadwell takes the letters and the order for tea. The problems are not resolved, but Aziraphale feels a pulse of relief all the same. Things are in order, with a plan in place. The restlessness of the afternoon has dissipated.

Crowley arrives before the tea. “She’s not fit to come down,” he informs his husband as he hands Aziraphale his book.

He settles on the sofa beside him with his sewing bag. He presses his knee against Aziraphale’s as he removes his gloves. These are set neatly in his lap. He withdraws a long white cotton infant gown from the bag. Next, comes his needle box and an assortment of thread.

“Is this project going to be burnt too?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley pushes his sunglasses into his hair as his face colors. He selects a needle and threads it.

“I can knit,” Crowley insists. “Really! I just… I thought you were having second thoughts and then I couldn’t stand to see it—“

“My darling, no.” Aziraphale grabs his chin and forces him to meet his gaze. “I am so happy to raise a child with you. As I said, I’m wrestling with guilt as I take over Gabriel’s responsibilities.”

He kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “You, Omba, are going to be a wonderful father, even if your knitting skills need work.”

“I’ll practice if you promise to let some of that guilt go. Lay it in the grave with your brother.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, so Crowley returns the chaste kiss before focusing on the baby’s gown. He embroiders little leaves in clusters of threes and fives. The pattern circles the hem. Aziraphale touches some of the finished greenery admiringly.

“Your needlework is lovely, my dear.”

“Better than my knitting?”

Aziraphale chuckles and traces the edge of the stitches. “It seems so. Our child is going to wear a garden on their skirt.”

“What color flowers shall they have?” Crowley asks as his needle continues to pierce and pull green thread.

He looks over at Aziraphale. His eyes are daffodil yellow just then. They remind him of spring. How anyone could see a snake or a demon there is beyond him.

“Yellow,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Tulips? Dandelions?”

Aziraphale reaches up and pulls Crowley’s sunglasses from the crown of his head. He sets them respectfully on the table at their knee.

“Nothing so formal. What is that little yellow flower that grows in the fields? The cows can’t eat them until they’re dried?” he asks brushing his fingers across Crowley’s forehead.

A few hairs have loosed themselves from his bun. He strokes these off Crowley’s skin and behind his ear.

“Buttercups?”

“Mmm, I believe so.”

Crowley smiles indulgently. “Five petals coming right up.”

Shadwell enters with the tea service as Crowley finishes the last rows of leaves. Aziraphale sends Shadwell away again and serves them both.

“Where did you find that gown anyhow?” he asks as he returns with their teacups and saucers.

“In the nursery,” Crowley replies. “I went to inventory, I suppose.”

He sips his tea and selects the yellow thread. When he speaks, it’s hesitant. “Angel, the nursery is very far from our den.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Aziraphale agrees. “It’s not meant to be the nursery for anyone but those living in the lord’s suite.”

Crowley sets his teacup down and focuses completely on threading the needle. It’s apparent that he’s giving the task more attention than it requires.

“Have you any reservations about that arrangement?” he finally asks.

Aziraphale sips his tea and allows his mate to continue. When he remains silent, the Alpha asks, “Do you?”

Crowley smooths the gown over his knee and begins to stitch. “It’s very far from us. The nursery, I mean.”

“So you’ve said.” Aziraphale considers this. “They’ll be with their nurse and nanny.”

“I’d rather they were with us,” Crowley finally says. “In our den.”

It’s not unheard of. Some families wait months into the child’s life to move them into the nursery. Aziraphale takes another sip of tea.

“You’d like them in our den,” he repeats. “In the nest?”

A dark blush creeps up Crowley’s cheeks.

“My parents kept us in the nest until we were nearly two,” Aziraphale admits. “Somewhere in this house is some contraption that bundles the child in a cot inside the nest. It swings if I remember correctly.”

Crowley has given up trying to sew. He stares at Aziraphale with wide, yellow eyes.

“You’ll allow it?”

Aziraphale touches his husband’s cheek. “Allow it? My darling, I’m overjoyed. I was afraid you might suggest that we foster the child out. Uriel and Gabriel had planned to—“

“Absolutely not.”

Crowley’s voice is stern.It’s instantaneous like the strike of a cobra.

“My mother wasn’t even that cruel.”

“I’m not sure cruel is the right word, my dear. Many families do it.”

Crowley scowls at him, “I don’t give a shit what they do. Our family is keeping our pup in our home.”

Aziraphale touches the back of Crowley’s hand. “Our family is keeping our pup in the nest.”

Crowley rolls his shoulders and shakes the stiffness and anger from them. “Right. Yes. Our pup in our nest.”

Aziraphale stands and refills his teacup. “We may need a wet-nurse.”

Crowley lifts his own teacup and drinks. “Uriel can’t suffice until my milk comes in?”

Aziraphale’s finds himself at a loss. He stares at his husband. “Come again?”

Crowley sets the teacup back into the saucer. “They make some sort of device to draw out the milk. She could do that and we could give it to the baby.”

Aziraphale blinks. “No. I meant, my dear, you said your milk will come in. Darling, you can’t. It’s a wives tale—“

“Forgive me, angel, but no. It’s not.” Crowley watches his husband steadily. “I might have found a book in the library about Omega health.”

His blush grows down his neck. “It tells how to force lactation before a child is born. It’s an older book, but it suggests that it’s… possible.”

Aziraphale sits carefully on the sofa as if he will dislodge his husband completely with his movements. “Crowley, when you say ‘force’, what does it entail?”

“Medication. Pressure. Massage, nothing too terrifying. Eating oatmeal, for some reason,” he adds with a quark of his lips.

“I’ve heard of this as a,” and here Aziraphale has to clear his throat and ignore his own blushing, “bonding opportunity between a mated pair. Never as a way to feed a child.”

Crowley chuckles. “I’m not really interested in that, angel. Sorry.”

Aziraphale lets his relief show. “I’m going to seek out this book. Excuse me.”

Crowley tells him the location and returns to his sewing. Aziraphale exits the drawing-room and makes the turn into the library. The saloon is quiet and the library empty. It strikes him then that it will always be empty if he knows where Crowley and Uriel are. There will rarely be anyone else in the house.

He pushes the thought aside to locate the book. It is an older edition and something his grandfather might have classified as “an interesting find”. The pages are delicate with age. Aziraphale begins reading as he walks back into the warmth of the drawing-room. The science is questionable in some places and completely wrong in others. Already, he’s concerned about Crowley’s easy acceptance of the text.

He resumes his seat at the Omega’s side. Crowley is working on the afore-mentioned five-petaled flower. It’s simple but lovely. Aziraphale inspects it before returning to the text. He finds the sections that Crowley had read easily and skims them before returning to read them in detail.

“My dear,” he says, slowly, “this is something we ought to discuss with Dr. Nutter before committing to.”

Crowley pauses his sewing to look at his husband. “And what makes you say that?”

Aziraphale’s finger touches the page below the section he is reading. “I want all the information. This is rather out of date.”

Crowley nods. “I was planning to seek her out when she visited Uriel tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes. To ensure she handles the… arrival well?”

“If you’re asking if we’re making sure she doesn’t keel over when she sees Gabriel in a coffin, then yes. That’s why she’s coming,” Crowley replies, slightly acerbically. He sighs and knots off one of the flowers. “Uriel gets worse each time I see her. That nurse we hired? She’s convinced the woman will kill herself before the baby is born.”

Aziraphale grips the book in his hands tighter. “That’s a terrible thought.”

“Not something I want to happen either. I’m pretty certain I got all the dangerous items out, but who can say? If she’s determined, she could try with anything,” Crowley says, grimly.

He presses his lips together and then sets to work on another flower. Aziraphale works his way through the text as his husband sews. The silence is only interrupted by the arrival of a note from the Dowager House.

“Thank you, Brian,” Aziraphale says, taking the letter.

The footman gives a quick bow and leaves them. Aziraphale offers the note to his husband, but Crowley waves him to open it instead.

“I wrote your mother this morning and invited her to stay for the next few days,” Crowley says as he unfolds it.

“I’m sure she’ll take you up on it,” he agrees and reads aloud.

_Dearest Omega Lord Fellthrop,_

_Thank you for your kind offer and hospitality in this difficult time. I would be grateful to accept it and join you tonight and for our weeks of mourning. This House is my home, but I find it too quiet for my liking._

_If you would be so kind as to send down the carriage before dinner._

_Your loving mother-in-law,_

_I.H._

_Dowager Marchioness_

Aziraphale nods as he finishing his reading, “I suppose I best order the carriage for her soon.”

He sets the books and the note on the table before him and moves to the fireplace to ring the bell. Crowley knots off another flower and turns the gown for the next placement in the pattern.

“This morning, Eve mentioned that Uriel’s Omega's maid had dug out some old mourning weeds from the attic. She seemed to think they could be fitted to me. I suppose I best go up and see if it’s time for that,” he sighs.

Aziraphale wracks his brain. “I suppose they’d be Michael’s old things.”

Crowley shrugs and returns his needle to the needle box. He neatly folds the gown and adds it, along with the other tools, to his sewing bag.

“As long as I don’t look like an embarrassment, I’m fine with that.”

Aziraphale prepares to argue, but Shadwell enters. “My lord?”

He gives directions to the butler and Crowley heads up to see to his fitting. Aziraphale is at a loss as to what to do with himself. Once, he’d see this pleasant hour as a time to delve into a book. Now, he just wanders the house.

In time, he finds himself upstairs. Maids prepare the Yellow Room for his mother. Eve and his sister-in-law’s maid scurry in and out of Crowley’s so-called bedroom with fabric and garments. Uriel’s bedroom is locked tight. The nursery is next door and Aziraphale pushes it open.

He’d spend his formative years in these walls. It connects to the schoolroom, but he has no interest in exploring there at the moment. Instead, he pokes around the room. An infant cot is already set up for Gabriel and Uriel’s child. He squats down to inspect it. The cot’s a beautiful wooden thing with high sides and an arched canopy that covers the infant’s head. He gives it a test and it rocks serenely.

“For the dressing room,” he decides as he imagines it sitting by the fireplace.

He stands and continues his hunt. He remembers the cot he and his siblings were kept in. He looks under beds and in closets. Finally, he finds it tucked on a high shelf. The Moses basket needs a good dusting, he thinks as he checks it over. The handles are still sturdy. The base that it sets into is equally well-made, but the ropes that hold suspect it needs replacing. His mother had hung the base in her bed, although Aziraphale suspected that most often the Moses basket simply sat on the bed next to her.

Yes, he thinks, keeping their little one safe in their den. He imagines pulling their bed curtains shut around Crowley and their child. The scent of pear and cedar mingling with baby powder and milk. Pleased, he sets his find inside the cot and continues his search.

He collects tiny blankets, swaddling, clouts and plichers, bonnets, powders, and gowns. Each he sets into the cot. His bounty collected, he lifts the cradle and carries it toward their den.

He opens the door to Crowley’s bedroom, or their dressing room, as it was more aptly named. Crowley stands in the center of the floor on a small wooden box. Eve and Adamette, Uriel’s maid, are on different sides of him, pulling black crepe fabric this way and that. Several bows have been cut off and litter the floor.

“What do you have there, angel?” Crowley asks, eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale smiles indulgently and sets the cot by the armchair next to the fire. As he imagined, it fits the space perfectly. Eve chuckles, but Adamette frowns.

“Isn’t that the cot for Lord Fellthrop’s child?”

Crowley glares at her openly. “Yes, it is. Hence why Lord Fellthrop currently has it.”

Adamette stutters, “Oh, yes. Of course, my lord. I… I forgot myself.”

Crowley hums, displeased, and allows her to continue to fit the gown to him. Aziraphale tries to put the moment behind him, but he’s rather upset by her comment. He collects the Moses basket and hanging platform and carries it into their den.

There’s a swish of fabric that tells the Alpha that Crowley is behind him.

“I’m all right, Crowley,” he begins to say as he sets the basket on the trunk at the foot of their bed.

Crowley stands behind him, biting his lower lip. When Aziraphale faces him, he gives a soft chuckle.

“My darling, you are held together with pins,” he says touching Crowley’s forearm.

True to the word, straight pins line the entire skirt of the dress.

“It was your Aunt Metatron's,” Crowley admits. “Very 1770s.”

Aziraphale reaches out and traces the square neckline where an abundance of bows have been removed. Wide lace still lines it and sleeves. The wide skirt is pinned to be cut smaller, but the waist and pleating still suggest fashion from the French Revolution.

“Did you find her powdered wig then too?” he asks with a teasing smile.

“I’m sure it’s somewhere,” Crowley agrees. “It’s the best we can do though.”

Aziraphale disagrees, “You’ll be beautiful.”

Crowley blushes prettily and touches the Moses basket. “This was yours?”

“And it shall be our child’s.”

Crowley smiles, pleased.

Aziraphale continues, “I brought their other things. I see no reason to use the nursery until we need a nurse or nanny.”

Crowley kisses his cheek and returns to the dressing room. He must be looking in the cot, for he calls back, “Did you bring all of it, angel?”

Aziraphale follows the sound of his voice and watches his husband retake his place on the wooden box. The maids return to their work of fitting the dress to him. Amused, Aziraphale sits in the armchair by the fire and watches this process.

“Just what we’ll need immediately,” he says, absently. “Eight weeks is not a long time at all. We will be busy between then and now. So much is changing.”

“Some good changes, I think,” Crowley suggests, carefully.

“Certainly,” Aziraphale agrees. Then, he revises, “Bittersweet.”

The maids work in silence and Crowley lets the conversation lapse. Yet, when Aziraphale looks up at him, Crowley is smiling as he takes in Aziraphale, the fire, and the cot. His pleasure makes Aziraphale chuff quietly and Crowley focuses on his face, delighted.

The fitting takes some time and Aziraphale watches the goings-on absently. He finds himself yawning.

“Perhaps I’ll go take a nap,” he says slowly.

Eve unbuttons the back of the newly pinned dress and helps Crowley step free of it. He’s in trousers and an Omega’s shift when she finishes.

“Would you like some company?” he asks as Adamette takes her leave with the dress.

Aziraphale unknots his cravat and nods. “That would be lovely, my dear.”

Eve giggles and hurries out. As soon as the door is shut, Crowley is on him. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and kisses him possessively. Then, panting, he pulls him in front of the long dressing mirror. Aziraphale nearly complains until Crowley slots his body behind him and locks eyes with him in the mirror.

He slides his long-fingered hands down Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulls his tailcoat free. It falls to the floor. With the same lust-heavy eyes, Crowley sets to work on his shirt buttons. Aziraphale watches his skin become exposed inch by inch. Crowley’s fingers slip inside and stroke his chest before resuming their task. The shirt flutters to the floor. Crowley stands, shift-covered chest heaving against Aziraphale’s back and his eyes dilated with want.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, huskily, “what has gotten you so worked up?”

Crowley instantly hides his face in the curve of Aziraphale’s neck. In the mirror, all he can see is the top of his husband’s red hair. Those long fingers, however, are not still. They set to work on the fastenings of his trousers. Once he gets them open, Crowley shoves them down Aziraphale’s legs, along with his small clothes.

“You brought the cots,” the Omega finally admits against his bare skin. He reaches for the laces on Aziraphale’s scent cuffs. Pears fill the room. “You’re taking care of our family.”

Aziraphale leans back into his mate. “I always will.”

Crowley lifts his eyes then to meet his husband’s in the mirror. He pulls on the laces of his own scent cuffs and cedar oil joins pear.

“What do you want, my dear?”

Crowley licks his lips. “You.”

Aziraphale laughs in the same husky voice. “You already have me.”

Crowley stands up a little straighter now and steps away to divest himself of his own clothes. Aziraphale takes the moment to step out of his boots and trousers. Crowley is faster to strip and stands waiting, anxiously. His skin is pale and freckled in the afternoon sunlight. His chest bandage stands out bright white against it.

“Crowley?”

The Omega licks his lips again. “You’re feeling out of control; you’ve been trying to get it back all day. The walk, the bills, the decor, even the nursery. You’re still not settled.”

Aziraphale considers this. “That’s… very likely.”

“So, come on then, Alpha. Dominate me.”

It’s like an electric current runs through the floor and up Aziraphale’s feet and legs. His cock jumps. His voice drops into another, lower register.

“Get in the den, Omega.”

Crowley scrambles to obey, nearly falling over his feet to hurry into their bedroom. Aziraphale follows at a more sedate pace, although he’s already feeling more centered. Aziraphale locks the pair of doors and stokes the fire. Crowley stands, unsure in the middle of the room. Aziraphale considers his options before settling into the wing chair by the fireplace. He wiggles his bare bum on the upholstery until he’s comfortable.

“My dear boy, look in the bottom drawer of the desk there. There’s a present for you,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley smiles sweetly and does as he’s told. He extracts a brown paper package and tests its weight in his hand. Aziraphale chuckles.

“Bring it over here—“ he begins, but then abruptly stops his husband with his hand. Crowley freezes misstep. “On your knees, please. Crawl to me.”

Crowley is still for a moment and Aziraphale worries that he’s overstepped somehow. Then his mate slowly kneels and lowers himself onto his hands. He shuffles across the floor to him. Aziraphale chuffs with pleasure and spreads his knees. Crowley crawls between them and sits back on his heels.

“Go on then,” Aziraphale says, pleased.

The side of Crowley’s smile curls up and he unwraps the gift. In the center of the brown paper is a beautifully carved piece of ivory. At the end of the tusk is the smallest bead and, at the base, one larger than his own swollen knot. The ivory is whittled down between each bead, like an immovable ribbon. Each bead is finely painted with red and orange roses and green ivy.

“I was assured that the flowers mean ‘love’, ‘passion and desire’, and ‘fidelity’—all things that seemed apt.”

Crowley lifts the item into his hand and turns it so it catches the firelight. “I don’t understand. What is it for?”

Aziraphale chuffs with pleasure. “I’d like to show you.”

Crowley hands him the ivory item and watches him curiously.

“I’ll need you to fetch the salve, my dear.” Crowley turns on his knees, then stops and raises an eyebrow at his husband. Pleased, Aziraphale chuckles, “Yes, crawl. Bring one of your hair ribbons too.”

Crowley obeys and something begins to settle in Aziraphale’s chest. His pear scent takes on the warm, alcoholic scent he’s come to associate with sex and his husband. A warm pine sap tinge joins Crowley’s scent as he returns to settle between his husband’s legs.

“You are so graceful. Even on your hands and knees, you’re absolutely lovely,” Aziraphale rumbles.

Crowley purrs suddenly and smears some scent oil onto Aziraphale’s ankles instinctively. Aziraphale considers reprimanding him but instead holds out his hand for the jar and ribbon. He helps Crowley stand and carefully wraps the wide ribbon around his husband’s cock and balls. He ties them off with a ribbon. Crowley studies him, with an eyebrow raised.

“I would like you to keep from coming, my dear,” Aziraphale admits before pressing a kiss to the slit of Crowley’s cock. “Back onto your knees. There’s a good boy.”

Once he’s settled again, Aziraphale tends to the ivory beads. The salve smells medicinal compared to their mingling scents. He dips his fingers into the jar and pulls out a dollop. He smears it on the end of the ivory and works it up several beads. Crowley’s eyes dilate further as he makes the connection.

“How would you like me?” he asks.

Aziraphale considers before standing and rearranging the room. He takes the framed mirror that once blocked their bedroom doors and lines it up. Then he disappears into the other room and retrieves the dressing mirror from there as well. He angles them carefully then sits on the trunk at the foot of their bed.

“Do you remember the first time I touched you?” he asks.

Crowley’s grin is slow and wide. “I crawled to you then too.”

A low rumble issues from Aziraphale’s chest, “Then come here.”

Crowley does as he’s been asked. Aziraphale arranges him on his belly over his own knees. He runs his hand down the Omega’s back, touching the bandage and the bare skin.

“Can you see yourself, my dear?” he asks.

Crowley looks into the mirror and sees the other reflection into it. Aziraphale watches him study their reflection.

“Spread your knees now.”

Crowley does.

“Can you see yourself— _all_ of yourself—my darling?”

Crowley tilts his head a little, then nods.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale praises. “I would like you to try to be quiet, but also to watch. Can you do that for me?”

Crowley meets his eyes in the glass and nods, solemnly. Aziraphale rumbles with pleasure and Crowley raises his chin. He bites his lip and cuts off a keen.

“Such a good boy for me,” Aziraphale praises again.

He studies Crowley’s reflection of his lower body before pushing his knees further apart. He checks the reflection again and is pleased. Crowley is on display. He lifts the ivory beads and shows them to his mate. Crowley studies them, then lets his weight press into Aziraphale’s legs. Aziraphale pets his back, pleased.

“Such a good boy for me.”

Then he spreads Crowley’s cheeks and rubs the end of the beads on his hole. There is some slick gathered there, but he may need more salve if Crowley doesn’t produce more. He carefully pushes the first bead into his husband. Crowley shifts, but doesn’t make a sound.

“Look how well you took that,” he praises before checking Crowley’s reflection.

His Omega’s eyes are locked on the mirror and where the ivory disappears into him. Aziraphale twists the base and sinks another bead into him. Crowley wiggles his hips and pushes back when Aziraphale twists it. With a frown, Aziraphale slaps his buttocks.

“Hold still. Be good.”

Crowley’s eyes widen and he holds very still. Aziraphale reaches down and circles Crowley’s hole. The next bead barely touches the ring of muscle, but the previous one is already out of sight. He pulls on the ivory and the second bead slips out of him again. Aziraphale pushes it back in, twists it, and pulls it free again. Crowley sighs in pleasure. With a devoted smile, Aziraphale shifts the ivory forward again. He watches, enraptured, as his husband’s body swallows the next largest bead. He rubs his thumb around his hole again and collects the slick there. He brushes it onto the next bead.

“Oh, my treasured boy, how good you are.” He presses the fourth into Crowley without resistance.

Crowley presses his hips into Aziraphale’s lap and his hands find handholds on the end of the trunk. He swallows and his eyes flutter. Aziraphale rubs the small of his back until Crowley gives a careful sigh and relaxes again.

“You’re doing so well,” he says as he pulls the ivory out again to the very smallest bead and slides them back in again.

Crowley wiggles again and bites his lip. Aziraphale waits until he’s still once more, then pulls the beads out again. This time, as he slides them back into his mate, Crowley gives a soft cry.

“That wasn’t quiet,” Aziraphale reprimands and pushes the next largest bead inside him without warning.

Crowley swallows convulsively and presses his hips harder into Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Oh, look how much better you did, my darling. Oh my treasured mate, how beautiful you are.”

It takes more salve on the next bead. “Three more, my darling,” he whispers, rubbing the ointment on the bead and around his rim. “You’re stretching so beautifully. Can you see how you are wide open for me?”

He meets Crowley’s eye in the mirror. His Omega’s cheeks are ruddy and his lower lip bitten. His eyes are wide and dilated. Aziraphale takes a globe of his buttock in each hand and squeezes them. He pulls them further apart so Crowley can get a good look.

“So beautiful,” he coos.

  
Crowley swallows convulsively and sweat drips down his temple. Aziraphale continues to hold one of his buttocks, but with his left hand, he smears pear scent oil all along the small of Crowley’s back and side. Then he takes hold of ivory again and pulls it completely free. The muscle of Crowley’s hole opens like a mouth as each bead slides out. Then it gapes, empty. Aziraphale presses his thumb inside and Crowley bites down on his lip hard.

He is breathing in hard bellows. Aziraphale rotates his thumb and feels how slick Crowley’s channel is. He lets go of Crowley’s cheek.

“You’re so loose for me, my darling boy. So good for me.”

He lines the ivory beads up again with this free hand and pushes the smallest bead in against his thumb. Crowley’s back muscles tighten. Aziraphale strokes the inside of his husband’s channel with the pad of his thumb as the second bead slides inside. Crowley’s mouth is hanging open now and he’s struggling to catch his breath.

“Look at you, my good boy. Look how open you are.”

He slides his thumb free and twists the beads. He slides more into him. The Omega tosses back his head and shows his throat.

“Oh, yes, you are mine, aren’t you?” Aziraphale growls.

His rumble has entered that deep register that he only seems to get with his mate. His eyes find Crowley’s claim mark in the reflection and slides in another bead. He gathers the slick from his thumb and rubs it onto the sixth bead. It takes a bit of coaxing, a moment to realign it, and then some added salve before it will slide into Crowley’s reddening hole.

Aziraphale pauses when it stretches his husband wide. He longs to kneel behind him and lap at the muscle. The ridges of it are stretched, but not yet smooth. He twists the ivory and Crowley bites down hard on his lower lip.

“Do you need to make some noise now, my darling boy?”

Crowley nods frantically.

“Of course, darling. You’ve been so good for me, my Omega.”

Crowley’s answering keen is instantaneous. His throat is bared and his eyes are fields of wide black iris in blazing yellow. Aziraphale chuffs and rumbles. He rubs his scent glands across as much of Crowley’s bare skin as he can reach. Crowley is clinging to the trunk. His knuckles are white.

Aziraphale twists the bead and slides it inside Crowley so that his rim closes around it as much as it can. Crowley keens again. Aziraphale thumbs at his hole once more. When he pulls the ivory out, slick soaks his thumb and rushes out.

“So wet for my, my darling. You’re so ready for me. Would you like another bead?” he asks sliding the ivory into his husband again.

There is so much slick that it squelches when Aziraphale turns the ivory next. He dips his finger into his husband and licks the slick off. Pine and resin burst over his tongue.

“You’re delicious. Would you like to taste?” he asks as he withdraws the ivory again before fucking it back into his husband.

Crowley cries out again, deep and wanting. He takes the seventh bead with a sob. Aziraphale rubs his back and squeezes the nape of his neck.

“Can you see, my darling boy? Can you see how stretched you are?”

Crowley shivers and sweats, but he studies himself in the mirror. Aziraphale reaches down again with both hands and spreads him wide. Crowley shifts his legs to open them wider.

“Oh, very good, my dear. Oh, you are a treasure.”

Crowley’s body is hot to the touch. Perspiration runs off him. When Aziraphale rubs his palms across his mate’s skin, goosebumps spring up. He’s a live wire, hanging on desperately. He rubs his cock against Aziraphale’s leg and the ribbon chaffs. Aziraphale swats Crowley’s bottom again.

“None of that. You will hold still or we’ll finish.”

Crowley cries out, helpless, but stills. Aziraphale runs his fingers through his husband’s hair.

“Perhaps I should buy you one of those cages. They lock in place to keep little Omegas flaccid until their Alphas let them come. You’d look lovely all trussed up for me.”

He pulls the beads once more and gathers Crowley’s slick onto them. It’s pouring out of him like a fount. Aziraphale rubs some between his fingers then gathers the slick to spread on the beads. The largest one takes salve and slick, to be safe. Then he slowly feeds them back into Crowley. His husband shifts and the edge of the trunk presses hard into Crowley’s thigh.

As the sixth and seventh beads disappear once more, Aziraphale decides to shift. He slides out from under his husband and lifts Crowley up onto the trunk. He kneels on the wood and lays across the foot of the bed. Aziraphale stands and takes in the sight.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

Then he begins moving the mirrors so Crowley can see. He’s panting and shivering when Aziraphale rejoins him. He pulls his armchair up directly behind Crowley and settles into it. He takes himself in hand and strokes himself slowly. The eighth bead glistens with slick. It’s wider than his own knot at its largest. He kisses each globe of Crowley’s arse before lowering his mouth into the cleft there. The skin is taut and Crowley howls when he kisses him.

“Will you take this last bead for me, my love?” he asks.

He finds Crowley’s face in the mirror and sees the flushed cheeks and redden mouth. Crowley takes a series of deep breaths and nods.

“Yes, Alpha.”Then he shows his throat.

Aziraphale growls then twists the ivory. It slides deep into his husband. The eighth bead stretches him until his rim is smooth. It stretches him wide. Aziraphale gives a delighted sigh.

“You are so lovely, my darling. Look at you. Can you see how beautiful you are?”

Crowley can only sob and keen. He’s past speaking. Aziraphale reaches under him and pulls on the ribbon. It unties and falls to the bed below his husband.

“You’re going to come now, aren’t you, my beautiful pet? My beautiful boy.”

He slides up onto the trunk beside his husband and presses against his back.

“Now, Crowley. _Come_ , Omega.”

And with a howl that is nearly a scream, Crowley does. He paints the tartan eiderdown under him with his spend. Aziraphale stokes his sides and squeezes his buttock globes, before sitting back to see his husband’s stretched rim.

“So beautiful. My darling.”

He takes hold of the end of the ivory and slowly pulls them free. With each bead Crowley sobs. Slick gushes out of him as they leave him. Aziraphale latches his mouth over the loosened muscled and lets his tongue dive deep.

Crowley is mewing and sobbing when Aziraphale pulls off moments later. He slides up Crowley’s back and sinks into him with one thrust.

“So loose. My knot will slide right into you,” he praises as he rocks into him.

He pulls right out again. Aziraphale grabs his husband and tosses him onto the bed. He crawls up and rolls him onto his back. He folds Crowley’s knees up and sinks back inside him. Crowley gives a keen and tears roll off his cheeks.

“My precious, treasured Omega. All mine.”

Crowley sobs and stretches his neck out.

“Alpha,” he tries to say, but it’s past enunciation.

He’s sinking deep and Aziraphale growls with pleasure. “Yes, my darling. Let me take you. Let me control you and care for you. Let go, my precious darling.”

His knot swells, but Crowley is so loose that he can continue to fuck his mate in full rolls of his hips. He lowers his mouth to Crowley’s nipple and sucks at it.

“You’ll feed my child. Let me show you how much that pleases me, my good, dear boy.”

Crowley gives a moan, but he’s drifting away. Aziraphale hums with pleasure and feels his knot swell to fullness. He could still slide out and in if he chooses to. Instead, he rocks slowly. He sucks harder and nips at the little bud in his mouth. He can feel his orgasm building. He releases Crowley’s nipple and focuses on his mating mark instead. He sucks on the scar until he’s coming deep inside Crowley, then he bites down.

He feels settled for the first time in days, absolutely worn out. Crowley is still floating, so he rolls them onto their sides and hikes Crowley’s leg over his hip. He holds him close. He could sleep, but he keeps watch instead. When he feels himself softening, he pulls out and kisses his husband. He finds a wet flannel and cleans them both.

Then he rolls them under the duvet and holds Crowley close. He lets his hand brush across Crowley’s flat stomach. Yes, he wants this man to grow round with child, but it’s never going to happen. He can go to as many doctors as he wants or Crowley can locate, but nothing will change. He’s sterile. He kisses Crowley’s forehead.

“Come back to me, my darling,” he calls.

Crowley hums and wiggles in his arms. Slowly, with a few other calls, Crowley comes back from his drifting.

“Hey, angel,” he greets.

His words are slurred and it makes Aziraphale rumble with pleasure.

“Hello, my darling. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Crowley nuzzles clumsily under his chin. His purr is slow and messy, but delightful. Aziraphale kisses the top of his head.

“Thank you for letting me take care of you, Crowley. It has… centered me.”

“Mmm, glad to hear it.” Crowley yawns and closes his eyes.

“Sleep, my dear boy. Rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- Lilies were used to cover the scent of decay. Funeral furnishers cared for the upper-class families and lower/middle classes had different merchants.  
> \- People sat vigils in case people were not really dead. They were terrified of burying people alive!  
> \- Crowley, like me, enjoys knitting, but we're only good at potholders and scarves!  
> \- "Omba" is something I made up. Omega + Baba  
> \- I lost my last grandparent this past week to COVID. Please look after yourself. Please, please, please wear a mask and wash your hands.  
> \- Banking was strange at this time. Coutt & Co is a real banking institution from this time that catered to the peerage.  
> \- The Pink Room is a real place!  
> \- Servants were paid weekly (and tiny amounts it was!). The extra coin went into their porcelain money boxes which did not have any way to extract the money unless broken. They would usually do so on Boxing Day and get themselves something nice.  
> \- Calling cards were left if a visitor went around to see someone but they were not home.  
> \- Cash boxes were huge, monstrosities that the peers kept for paying the servants.  
> \- Buttercups must be dried before serving to livestock... or they're poisonous  
> \- Moses baskets in the parents' bed are absolutely not real. I've made it up because A/B/O universe is so possessive. It seems that they'd want the kid close too.  
> \- "Fostering" meant that a kid between 3 months and walking was sent to live with their wet nurse. People believed that morals were passed through the mother's milk. Why did that mean they used someone else's milk? I've no idea. Jane Austen and her sister were fostered out.  
> \- I did some insane research about lactation. Anyone can lactate... it's a process though. Adoptive parents often choose to go through the pain and trial to feed their babies. Crowley is totally that kind of parent. If you're looking into it, talk to your doctor!  
> \- Babies at the time wore "clouts" instead of diapers. This was linen wrapped around their mess-producing end then covered in little cloth shorts called "plichers". Nowadays these are plastic. Then, beeswax-coated linen for the rich and cotton for the poorer.  
> \- Eve needed an Adam. Or... in this case "Adamette".  
> \- Sex toys are historic. However, I found no evidence of anal beads in the 1800s. Also, yes, when I say ivory, I mean elephant tusks. :( It was heavily used in this era... the Victorians did use them for dildos.  
> \- Do not use ribbon as cock rings unless you live in fanfiction worlds.


	15. Chapter 15

Eve knocks on the door to their den. The sun has disappeared behind heavy rainclouds and the afternoon looks grey.

“Time to dress for dinner, angel,” Crowley mumbles against his husband’s chest.

He’s not actually sure he’ll be able to walk after the working over Aziraphale gave him. All the same, if it helped his husband find himself, it was worth it. Crowley slides out from under the duvet, limp, and grabs his dressing gown from the bedside. Aziraphale watches him so Crowley gives him a bit of a show. He drops the dressing gown and leans over, stretching to grab it. He rolls his hips and lets his fingertips stroke down his thigh as he does so.

Aziraphale is out of the bed and plastered to his back before he can straighten up again. Crowley’s purr pours out of him as Aziraphale noses at his neck.

“Are you tempting me, my love?” Aziraphale growls against his throat.

“Is it working?”

“Your temptation would be accomplished _if_ my mother were not joining us for dinner.”

Crowley chuckles and kisses his husband over his shoulder. “Best get moving then, Aziraphale. The sooner we go to dinner the sooner it’s over and I’ll be back in your bed.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darken and Crowley isn’t surprised when he’s swept off his feet and dropped back into their nest. Aziraphale hovers over him and pins him down by his wrists. He presses his nose then his mouth to Crowley’s mating mark. As he sucks a new bruise into Crowley’s skin, Eve knocks again.

“Am I to stay here?” he asks.

Aziraphale growls low and possessively. “Perhaps I should tie you up.”

Crowley laughs when Aziraphale smears scent oil all over his temples, neck, and shoulders. “I’ll stay here if you need me to, Alpha.”

He wants to roll around in that smell. He wants his Alpha to feel empowered. He also wants to care for his husband, hide him in his arms, and protect him from his grief. Crowley looks up into his mate’s hazel eyes and sees such tenderness and love reflected there.

“I love you, Aziraphale. You know that, right?”

His mate’s hand is soft on his jaw and neck. “I do, my darling love.”

Crowley purrs deeply. He lays back on the duvet and Aziraphale spreads his hair out across the mattress. Eve knocks again and calls for them.

“Should I send her away?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale drawls his finger across his jaw again. He rumbles another deep, greedy growl. Then he sighs.

“No, my darling. It’s time for me to let you do your job.”

Crowley lets his eyebrow climb. “My job, angel?”

“My Omega Lord Herald, Marchioness of Fellthrop. You’re in charge of Zionview Grove’s accounts and our family. Our den, our home… my heart.”

Crowley’s heart is pounding in a new way. He surges up and hauls his husband down on top of him and kisses him deeply. He can’t come up for air. He just wants to keep pouring himself into Aziraphale. He tries to transfer all his affection, trust, gratitude, and pure love into his tongue and lips. Aziraphale moans into his mouth and straddles Crowley’s hips.

When the Alpha finally pulls back, he’s breathless. “Crowley, you are a beautiful man.”

He slides backward and pulls Crowley up to his feet by his hips. “Shall we see how irritated Eve is with us?”

Eve is not irritated, exactly. Quartermaster simply purses his lips and looks ready to yell. Crowley giggles and ducks behind the dressing screen. Eve pulls off his dressing gown and helps him into a clean shift. She doesn’t give him a chance to choose his outfit, but pulls the first gown he wore to dinner here at Zionview Grove over his head. It’s mourning colors. It’s at total odds with the way he feels. She herds him to the dressing stool and he sees the rocking cot there by the fireplace.

His heart could burst. Instead, he sits still and lets Eve twist his hair into some dinner-appropriate fashion and help him into scent cuffs and gloves. Once the servants are dismissed, Aziraphale kneels before him and ties on his stockings, and helps him into his slippers.

“Why do you do that for me?” Crowley asks as Aziraphale kisses his knee and hides it under the silk. “Eve can. I can actually do it myself if I need to.”

“Because I want to,” Aziraphale answer, primly.

With an accompanying sniff, he lifts Crowley’s shawl. It’s something brought down from the attic. It’d clearly been one of Metatron or Michael’s things. It’s an India shawl and finer than anything Crowley has ever had, even those new things his husband bought him. It’s deep blue-black everywhere except the ends. Paisley pattern takes up the last four inches in reds and golds. The shawl is longer than Crowley. Even as Aziraphale wraps it around his shoulders, both ends drag the ground. His husband seems to like that, however, because he chuffs.

“We’ve kept my mother waiting long enough,” he admits and offers his arm.

They descend the stairs as the rain begins to batter the windows.

“The storm finally made it here,” they hear the Dowager proclaim to someone in the saloon. “It rained the entire way in the carriage.”

“The roads were muddy for certain,” answers a man.

As they turn at the landing they are surprised to see Doctor Nutter and her wife waiting for them. At Mrs. Nutter’s side is a tall man, whose back is to them. The hem of his trousers is wet and so is the slight curl of his red hair. Crowley feels the world slow.

The man’s posture is very like Lucifer’s. As he turns, Crowley thinks how like Beelzebub’s nose the man's is. And when his eyes open wide, it’s all Hastur in the gesture. He clenches his hands, an unconscious gesture, much like Usher. The ginger curls, however, that is all Dagon, Ashtoreth, and himself.

In fact, everything else is like looking into a mirror.

Commodore Raphael Jayanthony Samael, former Lord Burningstone, is a bit gray at the temples where his hair hangs over his ears. He’s wrinkled about the eyes. If Crowley could imagine himself thirty years older, he’d hope to look as good.

“Oh my,” the Commodore breathes.

He has not looked away from Crowley yet. Crowley leans heavily on Aziraphale as so not to fall. He swallows.

“Hello, Father,” he whispers and the Commodore blinks rapidly to dispel tears.

“Hello, Crowley.”

Aziraphale guides them down the last few stairs, but Crowley cannot feel any of them. His hands tremble.

“This is my husband, Lord Fellthrop, Aziraphale Herald.”

Raphael tears his eyes away from his son to look at his mate. “Lord Fellthrop,” he bows and offers his hand.

“Commodore,” he replies with an incline of his shoulder and shaking his hand. “Welcome to Zionview Grove.”

“I am very sorry to come in this terrible time, but, forgive me, I was so eager to see you. I received your post and made my way here immediately,” Raphael continues.

Crowley can only nod and offer some sort of rote response, “You’ll join us for dinner then?”

Something must be said then because the Dowager interrupts and further conversation about the brewing storm is made. It’s all sound to him. Crowley is completely unable to process anything. He keeps staring at Raphael uncomprehendingly. Aziraphale kisses his temple then and brings him back to himself. He blinks slowly and looks at his husband.

“Are you all right, my love?” Aziraphale asks, pulling him closer.

“I’m… having a moment.”

“I see that,” Aziraphale says gently before cupping his neck. “Are you all right though?”

“I could use a stiff drink, to be honest.”

Aziraphale kisses his temple again then. “We can arrange that.”

Before anything else can be said, though, Uriel races down the stairs with her nurse chasing after her. She’s dressed, which is a surprise. She’s wearing a large, yellow gown which is not fully done up in the back. Her pregnant belly swings as she moves. Her bare feet slap the floor.

“Lady Uriel!” the Dowager yells and the Omega freezes. “Why are you wearing your wedding dress?”

She spins a slow circle. “Gabriel says I look lovely in yellow.”

Before anyone can explain to Raphael, Uriel is off like a shot. She dashes into the library. Doctor Nutter and her nurse give chase.

“That poor woman,” Mrs. Nutter laments. “She’s taken leave of her senses.”

“Not completely,” Crowley finds himself saying. “She can be reasonably coherent in the mornings.”

“Dinner is served,” Shadwell informs them.

Mrs. Nutter heads into the library in an attempt to convince Uriel to join them. Crowley can only blink and wonder how this is his life.

“Let us all go in then,” Aziraphale decides and guides his husband to the table.

Raphael takes the seat at Crowley’s side and continues to stare at him. “I am so sorry to hear about your sister. I would have been at the funeral, had I known.”

Crowley clears his throat nervously, “I’m not sure there was one. I was quite ill at the time.”

“All the same. I fought very hard for you both,” Raphael says, the hair in front of his right ear shifting. “Not hard enough it would seem.”

Uriel is coaxed into a chair and suddenly seems to come back to herself. Mrs. Nutter has laced up her stays and sent for her shawl. Uriel looks very much like a lady for the moment. Aziraphale waves the nurse away and she looks relieved for the break.

Crowley can’t help but study those around him. He feels like he’s in a dream, so gathering details seems important. His husband is steady at his side. His sister-in-law is at the table. There is a glint of stone from Raphael’s ear. The Dowager seems pleased at the group around the table and Crowley imagines she still likes to pretend to be the mistress of the house. He removes his gloves and sets them into his lap.

The footmen serve the soup. It is simple but hot. As the rain patters against the window and lightning brightens the sky, it’s a welcome feeling.

“These early autumn storms can be so sudden,” Mrs. Nutter prattles on.

Her wife rolls her eyes. “I told you it was going to rain. You let the cat out anyway.”

Raphael takes a deep drink of wine, then looks back at his son. “I’ve been to see Lucifer. He’s on the mend, but his actions are unacceptable. I am sorry to hear that your wedding was so dramatic.”

Crowley tries to force words through his throat, “I’m glad to be with my husband, no matter how it came about.”

Raphael nods sharply before fidgeting with his spoon. “You’re going to be parents, I’m told.”

“Yes, in a few weeks,” Crowley answers, but his voice cracks.

Aziraphale pats his knee under the table. Crowley stirs his soup.

“Why didn’t you come to Tophet?” he suddenly asks. “Mrs. Nutter said you did, but I’m sure I’ve never seen you before.”

Raphael takes another long drink of wine, thus emptying the glass. “Your mother would have forced me back into the house. The claim is,” he touches his shoulder where his mating mark must hide, “still active, divorce or otherwise. Her pheromones would… well, you understand.”

Crowley lets his spoon drop into his soup and clutches his hands in his lap. He finds his gloves and twists them in his hands.

“You could have thrown rocks at the window. Brought a ladder. Caught us when we were on a walk! We would have liked to have known you were alive.”

Raphael stares. “Alive? What do you mean?” Then it must dawn on him because his face whitens. “Lord Almighty, she told you I was dead? But the others...”

“She told everyone you were dead. All of our connections said she was a widow,” Crowley admits worrying his gloves.

Aziraphale’s hand cups over his and lifts one hand to his mouth. He kisses the back of Crowley’s knuckles. Crowley stills and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. God, you’ve never gotten my letters or gifts then,” he whispers. “She must have kept it all.” Here Raphael shakes his head, “No, Beelzebub was wearing the—“

“You’ve met Beelzebub?” Crowley nearly shouts. “And Usher?”

Raphael stares at him. “I know all your siblings except you and your sister. You were tiny infants when I went to sea.”

“You’ve met them as adults?” Aziraphale clarifies.

Raphael taps his wineglass and Brian hurries over to refill it. Raphael tosses it back. “Indeed,” he says with a slight cough. “The babes I carried.”

Crowley feels the shift then. He wasn’t worth seeking out before this because he was the Dame’s baby. At least there was a reason, he thinks.

Uriel sets her spoon down, most of her soup eaten, and smiles at the table. “It’s nice to have the house full of guests again. I’m sure Lord Fellthrop will return shortly; please forgive his tardiness again.”

Then she pushes back from the table and stands. She moves with measured steps. Crowley hops up and gives chase. He hears the others following them, but slower.

“Uriel?” he calls as she strides for the front door.

“We’ll wait for him so we can see him ride up!” she decides and throws open the door.

The rain is driving down now. The pebbled path is puddled. Lightning strikes and the sky goes white and blue. Uriel hurries down the steps from the house. Her dress darkens immediately in the rain. Crowley chases after her. The rain comes down so fast he has to continuously wipe his eyes.

Uriel is running barefoot but it gives her more traction than Crowley’s silk slippers and stockings. Crowley lowers his head, lifts his skirt, and takes after her, slipping and sliding. She waits for him when she sees him lean over and yank off the stockings and slippers. Once he’s barefoot, however, she shrieks and begins to race from the terraced gardens onto the lawn.

If there are sheep out there, they have more sense than him. He can’t see them in the storm. Uriel stops running to spin in a circle with her arms thrown out at her sides. Crowley is at her side then.

“Are you dancing in the rain, Lady Uriel?” he asks.

She giggles and throws her arms around his neck. “Yes! Let’s dance!”

He’s already drenched so he spins her in a circle before taking their dance steps back toward the house. Aziraphale runs toward them, out of breath. He’s holding a large umbrella out to them both.

“Come inside, now!” he orders and shoos them under the umbrella.

Uriel giggles and tugs on Crowley’s arm the entire way, but goes willingly. Once at the door, Eve and Adamette descend on them with bath flannels and blankets.

“Lady Uriel!” her nurse reprimands. “You’ll catch your death! Think of your little one!”

Eve throws the blanket over Crowley’s shoulder as he drips onto the floor. “If you didn’t want to wear that, you could have just said something, my lord.”

Crowley chuckles, but he’s already regretting his choice. Even wrapped in the blanket with a bath flannel in his hair, he’s chilled. There is only one way this has ever ended. He lets Eve bully him upstairs and out of his wet things. He huddles on the hearth in his husband’s dressing gown as she combs his wet hair.

“Why do you think she ran off like that?” Eve asks.

Crowley considers the answer, “I think she’s more like a child than anything else. What child didn’t like playing in the rain?”

Eve squeezes more water from his hair before her tone gentles. “So that’s your father?”

“Apparently.”

“This is the first time you’ve met, then?” she asks carefully.

Crowley sighs and rests his forehead on his knees. He speaks into the thick fabric of Aziraphale’s dressing gown, “That I remember, yes. According to the gossip, he’s been trying to get custody of me from my mother for years.”

Eve’s comb stills. “You don’t believe it?”

Crowley lifts his head carefully. “I believe he’s my father, but all this—suddenly finding him alive and wanting me, it all seems so,” he waves his hand as he thinks of the word, “ngk, contrived? What man in his right mind would see our family’s scandals in the papers and think ‘the perfect time to introduce myself to my son’?”

Eve runs the bath flannel through his wet tresses again. “I might if someone in my family suddenly because a Marchioness,” she admits.

Crowley grins, but it’s not a nice thing. “Exactly. I would have too. A chance to make a better connection than my family? A chance at some money? I’d be there. Or here, as it may be.”

Eve plaits his hair slowly. “That’s what this is about?”

“Who can say?” Crowley admits. “I’m sure his true colors will show in time. But what’s the point of including the Nutters in his little game then?”

Eve pauses as if she’s thought of something. “Lady Uriel’s pregnancy.”

Crowley’s eyebrow rises higher and higher in alarm. “Help me get dressed!” he orders, jumping to his feet.

They get him into a shift and a gown faster than ever before. He grabs a dry shawl and races down the hallway to Uriel’s den without shoes. His hair is wet and soaking water into his dress. He throws open the door to her room and Doctor Nutter is there with her.

“I just gave her something to sleep,” she says.

Crowley eyes her suspiciously. “I think you need to leave.”

Agnes considers him and smiles, “You Omegas always get so overwrought. Today has been something else and tomorrow will be too. No one will miss you if you need to lie down. I could give you something to sleep.”

“I don’t think you understand me. Get out of my house.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls from down the hall.

Eve got him faster than he’d expected, bless her.

“In here, angel.”

Aziraphale pushes the door open and Uriel doesn’t even react.

“What have you been giving her, Doctor?”

“A mild sedative,” Agnes answers, frustrated.

Aziraphale places his hand in the small of Crowley’s back and he leans into it. “I think the Nutters are trying something with the Commodore. I think they want something.”

Agnes’ eyes widen and she stares them down. “This again?”

Crowley swallows. “My father admitted that he visited every other child but me and Ash ages ago. They all know he’s alive. Yet, once my new title was in place and I confirmed it with correspondence, he appears.”

The doctor shuffles items in her bag and lifts it to her arm. “And me? What’s my play?”

“I think this is about money. I think it’s _always_ been about money,” Crowley answers.

Aziraphale studies the doctor. “You’ve cared for my family for years. You’re the only studied physician this area has. Should I continue to trust you?”

Doctor Nutter considers them. “Uriel is going to be fine. The infant, however, may not. The sedative I’ve been giving—and the nurse, might I add—could affect it. If you find yourself doubting me, fine. Use the local apothecary, I don’t care. He’ll give you the same items to keep her calm. Uriel will come out of this. She may need a new Alpha for that to happen, but she will be fine.”

Crowley’s heart is banging in his chest. “The baby?”

The doctor softens with a sigh, “Laudanum is hard on infants. Even the small dose we’ve been giving, mixed with lavender water. It can cause early labor.”

Crowley sags against his husband, “We’re not ready yet.”

Agnes nods. “Be that as it may, the baby might come early.”

Crowley feels the prick of suspicion again. “You want it to come early? What will you get out of it? And the Commodore?”

“I don’t want anything, honestly. My wife has been in contact with the Commodore about all this longer than I’ve been aware. If they’re hatching some sort of plot, then it does not include me and I will sort it out with my wife,” she says.

Aziraphale pulls Crowley’s shawl tighter around his shoulders. “We should get you dressed so we can get back to our guests. Doctor Nutter, will you join us?”

She nods and leads them down the hall. “I’ll see you both momentarily.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale stops her, “as my husband dresses, might I ask you some questions about feeding infants?”

Sometime later they’re all in the drawing-room sipping tea. Raphael continuously tries to corner Crowley, but he slips away each time. He settles next to the Dowager and selects a needle from his needle box. His dry gloves are in his lap and his child’s new gown awaits more embroidery.

“That’s lovely,” the Dowager says softly. “Gabriel would have been pleased.”

Crowley doesn’t know how to react. He just smiles at her and begins to stitch.

Raphael appears at his shoulder then, “My grandchild will be wearing yellow flowers in just a few weeks.”

“You have no grandchildren here,” Crowley replies, his voice low and dangerous.

The party all quiets and looks his way. Raphael shifts his weight.

“Surely you cannot mean that? We’re back in one another’s lives.”

Crowley tugs his needle carefully and pierces the gown again. “I have no idea what you want, but you will not find it here.”

“What I want? I want my son.”

Crowley looks up at him then with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He hopes at that moment that he looks like the demon so many have accused him of being.

“I am no one’s son. I had no parents. I had a man who sired me and a woman who imprisoned me,” he offers sharply.

Aziraphale steps into his vision, close, but not crowding. Crowley gives him a slight nod. The Alpha doesn’t move away, but his posture loosens.

“That’s not fair,” Raphael argues.

“You said you’ve been to see Lucifer? How’s his hand?” Crowley asks, setting his sewing in his lap.

Raphael frowns, “I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t seen Lucifer—“

“Liar. You said you’ve been to see him and he was mending. It’s how you knew about how heinous his actions were during our wedding,” Crowley replies.

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “Lucifer never gave up then.”

“Of course not, angel. He wants his payday. He’ll do anything to get it. Let me guess, he reached out to you. Finally! After years of trying to make contact, your eldest child calls!” Crowley says dramatically. “Then you find out that he just wants money, but your cut isn’t too bad. In fact, there’s enough for you to offer a portion to your niece, Mrs. Nutter.”

Mrs. Nutter sets her teacup on the table quickly. It clatters. Her Alpha, Doctor Nutter takes the nape of her neck in her hand immediately. Her wife goes still.

“Because I still don’t understand how an Omega could become a Commodore in the Navy,” Crowley continues.He looks sharply at his father. “Unless your Alpha is in the Navy.”

Raphael stares at him. “My Alpha is your mother.”

Crowley points at his father’s right ear. “No, I mean your current spouse. Your new Alpha.”

His grey-tinged red curls are intentionally draped across the lobe, but he reaches up instinctively and his wedding earring is there. A slight blush colors Raphael’s cheeks.

“I don’t think you became a Commodore by your own rights. I think your spouse is an Admiral and gave you the title as a wedding gift,” Crowley admits. “I get it. My Alpha would give me anything too. It’s in their natures. But it doesn’t explain why you need the money or why you’re willing to work with my idiot brother.”

Aziraphale’s voice is soft, “He’s not in it for the money, my darling.”

Crowley looks up in a hurry and Aziraphale watches him with wet eyes. “He’s going to give his entire share to your cousin, right, Mrs. Nutter?”

She is unnaturally still under Agnes’s hand, but she nods. Aziraphale looks at Raphael knowingly. “You really did want to meet my husband.”

Raphael inclines his head but makes no reply. Aziraphale fidgets with the labels of his tailcoat, “I admit I am curious why anyone would deal with Lucifer, but I have a theory that you didn’t set out that way. You went to visit your child in hospital, not to strike a bargain.”

Raphael still has not looked up. “I understand why you have such a low opinion of me, son. And, in light of everything that has happened to you in your life, I shouldn’t be surprised. I went to Lucifer to see about his hand. I wanted him to introduce us. We might be family, but we are strangers. I learned what he had done then. I agreed to his ridiculous scheme to make your acquaintance. Nothing more.”

Crowley sags, very ungentlemanly, into the sofa. The Dowager pats his shoulder.

“We are going to bed,” Doctor Nutter suddenly announces and drags her wife from the room without any reply from the others.

The Dowager rises, “I’ll go up too.”

Shadwell, who has born all this with the unruffled exterior of the best of English butlers, steps out with the women in relief. Crowley waits until the door swings shut before reaching for Aziraphale. His husband comes to his side willingly and Crowley ducks his head under his Alpha’s chin.

Raphael drops into the sofa across from him. “May I apologize then?”

“For what? _Everything_?” Crowley replies very near tears.

“To start with: for not coming for you before today. You’re right. I could have taken you away a number of times. In the beginning, I was still able to come and visit. You were so young, always running and shrieking. Later, I could have hand-delivered the letters. I was afraid and I am sorry.”

Crowley nods and nuzzles his husband’s cravat. It’s not appropriate for public, but he doesn’t care. Aziraphale’s arm holds him across the shoulders but then pulls him back. He touches Crowley’s forehead.

“You’re cold to the touch, my dear,” he notes and adjusts Crowley’s shawl. “Let’s get you closer to the fire.”

Raphael frowns. “He looks flushed. Should I get the doctor?”

“No, I’ll just go up and get into bed,” Crowley decides.

Aziraphale guides him to the steps where Eve waits with a candle. “I’ll be up shortly. I believe the Commodore and I have some things to discuss.”

Crowley kisses his husband’s cheek and climbs the steps to their den. Once he’s inside the dressing room and the door is firmly shut, he turns to Eve in a panic.

“I need your confidence.”

She takes his hand, worriedly, “My Lord, you have it, Your Grace.”

“I get ill often—I’m frail.”

“Oh, no! The rain!”

Crowley squeezes her hand, “Just so. The former Lord of Fellthrop arrives tomorrow and the burial the day after. My husband Lord Fellthrop must not know I am becoming unwell—he is grieving and will need his head about him to care for Lady Uriel and the Dowager. I will need your help to keep my fever controlled and out of his notice.”

Eve frowns heavily, “That is dangerous, my Lord.”

He shakes his head, “No, we’ll treat it. I’ll need willow bark tea every few hours and perhaps a tonic on the sly. I’ll dress in layers. The coming days will be quiet anyway with the vigil and the funeral. I can sit and rest.”

Eve moves to remove his gloves and scent cuffs. Her eyes are very worried. Crowley's mind spins with all the words his father has said, his distrust of the Nutters, and the upcoming funeral.

“I don’t like this.”

“I appreciate that. However, this is about my husband at the moment. He needs the time to grieve. Also, if we take the precautions now, I may stall the fever before it begins.”

That makes her consider him carefully. “I will agree to help you with this because I want you to stay well.”

He squeezes her hand again and she walks around him to undo the buttons of his dress. “Thank you.”

She helps him out of his layers and into a nightshirt. When she takes down his hair, she frowns.

“It’s still damp,” she worries.

“Yep,” he replies, emphasizing the last letter. “You did your best to dry it earlier. Let’s get it into a cap and I’ll get into bed.”

She plaits it loosely and tucks the damp strands into his linen sleeping cap. He thanks her and heads into their nest. It’s warm and cozy when he pulls the curtains and sinks down under their duvet. The bed smells of their mingled scents and still somewhat of the haze of sex. The room has been set to rights by some unseen maid. He wonders if she blushed when she cleaned it.

There’s a knock at the door to his dressing room and he slips back from the bed. Eve stands there with a steaming cup of tea.

“I’m sorry to get you up,” she says.

“No trouble,” he agrees. “You’re doing me the favor.”

He takes the cup, pinches his nose, and throws back the entire cup of tea. He swallows it with a grimace.

“That is vile.”

She chuckles. “If you take ill, you’ll need to sleep in here.”

He nods. “Let’s see if we can’t stop it before it takes root.”

He shivers then and she takes the empty cup. “Back to bed, my Lord. Good night.”

“Thank you, Eve. Rest well.”

He slides back into the bed. The eiderdown has not forgotten his body heat and he moans gratefully as he pulls the duvet over his shoulder. It’s been a trying day emotionally. His body aches from his and Aziraphale’s afternoon activities in the bedroom and the run in the rain after Uriel. There had been maths in the accounting books and emotional highs and lows. He’s exhausted. He lets his eyes shut and his mind drift. He must doze because he’s surprised when the mattress dips and Aziraphale slides into bed beside him.

“Angel,” he tries to say, but it is gruff from sleep.

“Hush, my dear,” Aziraphale says, arranging Crowley’s limbs so he can mold around him. “Go back to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Why are you so late to bed?” he tries to ask in a jumble.

Aziraphale kisses the nape of his neck and wraps him in his arms. “Talking to your father. I’ll tell you in the morning. Rest.”

The heat against his back, mixed with the security of being with his Alpha, is enough to let him tumble over once more into sleep.

The morning is a rush of dressing, eating, sneaking willow bark tea, visiting Uriel, and greeting their guests. The Dowager is trying to stay positive, but her eyes swim in tears. Aziraphale is frantic. He rushes from here to there, generally getting in the servants’ ways and irritating his mother.

The coffin and its occupant arrive at nine in the morning. It’s carried into the family chapel and laid out for the vigil. The Dowager holds Uriel’s hand as the funeral furnisher sets everything to rights. Then the two women approach the coffin. Crowley stands at Aziraphale’s side and watches. The lilies are overpowering and his eyes water and his headaches.

The Dowager approaches her son and gives a quiet, mournful cry before smothering it with her hand.Uriel stares at Gabriel’s dead countenance and falls to her knees. Multiple people rush to her side, but she just sits there beside the coffin, crying silent tears. Crowley takes his husband’s hand and tries not to sneeze. In time, Aziraphale walks closer to the coffin and studies his brother’s slack features.

“I will make you proud,” he whispers to the corpse.

Crowley cannot look. Instead, he watches his husband’s face as it tries to ward off tears. The funeral furnisher and his lackeys wait until the initial viewing has ended, then he hurries them each from the room to have restorative tea. His helpers stay with the body.

  
As the others enter, Eve slips into the drawing-room and Wensleydale frowns at her. She holds up a teacup and Crowley slips away from his husband to join her in the saloon. The cup swirls with steam.

“Every two hours, right?” she asks, worriedly.

“Excellent. Thanks.” He pinches his nose and throws back the tea. “That is _vile_.”

"It's working though?" she asks.

He hands the now empty cup back to her. “I'll be right as rain. See you in a few hours.”

She rolls her eyes, curtsies, and disappears downstairs. Crowley slips back into the drawing-room unnoticed by anyone but the staff. Wensleydale tries to make his face impassive, but he’s too curious to master it.

“She’s helping me with a health issue,” he whispers to the footman.

A knowing look crosses the boy’s face and he returns to his aloof stance along the wall. Crowley smiles at the kid and takes a seat on the sofa closest to the fire. His sewing bag is still there from the previous day, so he sets to work selecting the gown, needle, and yellow thread. He studies the hem and decides he still has at least ten flowers to add. It’s no hardship. Buttercups are simple. Sure, each of his stitched flowers is slightly different than the one before, but the baby will not notice. If it were something more difficult, he would have traced the pattern onto the fabric with pencil or paint.Uriel sits across from him, cupping her middle. She watches him sew.

“That’s for this one?” she asks him, patting her belly.

“It is. You bought the gown. I was adding some frill to it,” he agrees.

“My husband ordered some gowns for the baby with lacework on them. Our little baby Alpha will be lovely in them. I thank you for helping me dress them. When they go to the foster they will know they are thought of,” she says dreamily.

Crowley contains the growl that wants to surge from him. No child is going to a foster or wet nurse on his watch. He and Aziraphale chatted with the Doctor the night before about drawing milk. It was more complicated than the book he’d read suggested, but he was still intending to try. Uriel pats her belly again.

“Lord Fellthrop’s heir will be strong and healthy. I will give him many Alphas,” Uriel continues rubbing a pattern onto her swollen middle.

“Lady Uriel,” Doctor Nutter reminds her, “who did we just see in the coffin? Do you remember?”

Uriel’s face clouds and she squeezes her eyes shut. “Of course. I’d forgotten.”

The Dowager wraps her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “We’ll get you through this, I promise.”

Uriel can only nod, shakily. Raphael brings over sugary tea for her. She takes it hesitantly, but with thanks.

“I have found that a routine can best settle me,” the Commodore says. “My wife keeps me to it.”

“That’s good advice,” the Dowager agrees. “Even on bad days, I used to set one goal for myself. It might have been something small like ‘sit at the pianoforte’. I might not even play, but I would come down.”

Uriel stares into her teacup. Crowley knots off the flower and snips the thread with his tiny sewing scissors. He begins another petal. It’s soothing and meditative. He can let the other conversations flow over him. Aziraphale is strangely quiet and it's the only thing that Crowley can focus on outside the tug of his needle.

  
“Angel?” he asks and everyone else quiets to look at their hosts.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale replies, clearing his throat. “Might I get you some tea? I’ve been terribly remiss. Forgive me, my love.”

He sets to doctoring the cup just how his mate likes it, but this only serves to worry Crowley more.

“I was going to ask you to come and sit with me, actually,” he says when Aziraphale brings over the teacup and saucer.

“Oh, yes, um, very well,” he stutters in return, smoothing his waistcoat.

Crowley considers him curiously and pats the seat beside him. Aziraphale sinks into the sofa but continues to fret. He fidgets. Crowley sets his sewing in his lap and lifts his teacup.

“What’s on your mind, Aziraphale?”

His husband stills and looks him in the eye for the first time since they’d been into the chapel. “Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about the vigil.”

The others quiet.

“We ought to set a rota. I don’t want anyone to become overtired. It’s… lonely work to sit vigil,” he admits, his eyes downcast suddenly.

Crowley sets his teacup onto the coffee table and takes his husband’s hand. “You’d like to set a rota then?”

“I’ll take the first watch,” the Dowager states, booking no argument. “I was the first to see his face in this world.” Her voice becomes strangled.

“I’ll sit with you,” Uriel decides. “I think I can, but I’m not sure that I could… we all know I’m not strong enough to do it alone.”

It’s reassuring to hear her speak so rationally. It’s concerning that she seems to know she is less stable than before.

“I’d appreciate the company,” the Dowager agrees.

“I’ll take fire watch,” Raphael offers.

“I’ll take the other half of the night,” Aziraphale decides.

“You’ll need to sleep some,” Crowley argues.

Aziraphale nods, “Commodore, would you take the later shift?”

Raphael nods in agreement.

“I’ll take midmorning then,” Crowley decides.

The Nutters are left with the last shifts. It’s helpful to have this many people, but also heartbreaking that so few remain who should be present.

“If you all will excuse me,” Aziraphale says, standing, “I have some business to attend to that will not wait. My dear,” he says, drawing Crowley’s attention, “would you stop by the study sometime this morning? Give me some time to get organized, but when you can.”

“Of course,” Crowley agrees.

He’d add more but Aziraphale is off like a shot. The door closes quickly behind him and Crowley stares into the fire. He’d tried to give his husband control back the day before. It had helped settle him, but now he appeared just as at sea. It did not bode well for the day. Perhaps Aziraphale was aware of his precarious grip on his health. Maybe Raphael had told him something in confidence the night before which would alter the heading of their day. Crowley lifts the needle and gown again. He focuses on his stitches. It’s rhythmic.

The Dowager and Uriel head into the chapel. Doctor Nutter takes Uriel’s abandoned seat.

“Omega Lord Fellthrop,” she begins, “I have made up a list of the supplies you’ll need.”

She must see his confusion about the topic because she clarifies. “The topic we discussed last night?”

“Yes, of course. Right.”

She nods, “I have written to the apothecary for the medicines you’ll need, but these other items will need to be sent for from London. They can cost a pretty penny.”

“I will see that you’re paid, Doctor Nutter,” Crowley answers, irritated.

“Of course he will,” Raphael says immediately. “His pin money should be accessible in the next week.”

All rational thought leaves Crowley. “I have no dowery,” he says, stupidly.

Raphael worries the handle of his teacup then sits down abruptly next to his son. “That’s not remotely true. Your mother’s estate has money set aside for both of her Omega children, plus an annuity for her Alpha children.”

Crowley stares at him. “She gambled it away.”

Raphael shakes his head in disagreement. “Forgive me for being so blunt, Crowley, but, no. The banks would never have allowed that and I ensured those annuities were watertight against her spending when I was in charge of the household accounts.”

Crowley thinks about blinking. He doesn’t. “I have a dowery?”

Raphael smiles sadly, “I’ve written to the bank. As Ashtoreth is gone,” and here Raphael’s voice cracks, “it seems reasonable that her account joins yours. According to Lord Fellthrop, you two were remarkably close.”

“She was my only companion and friend for many years,” Crowley agrees, his voice strangled.

“The money will be issued to you immediately. I visited them before I came here and railed as to why they’d not started your payments upon your marriage,” Raphael continues. “I never received an adequate reason, but I assure you, your pin money will arrive soon.”

Crowley still cannot bring himself to blink. “My siblings have access to their annuities now?”

“The Alphas? Yes, since they were eighteen.”

Crowley considers the gown in his lap. He looks at his teacup. He looks back to his father.

“They’ve known you were alive since they were eighteen?”

Raphael worries his gloved hands. “I was thinking about this last night. My life was never hidden from your elder siblings.”

“Then everyone associated with us also knew you were alive? My mother lived her life as a widow!”

Raphael considers this. “I remarried quickly, for _love_ this time. Perhaps by me changing my name in conjunction with my life in the Royal Navy made her lie easier to maintain. So many have not returned from the battles. My son, I cannot imagine what benefit your mother gained by hiding my existence from you. Your husband can only theorize it had to do with the court trials.”

“The custody battles?” Crowley clarifies.

Mrs. Nutter clears her throat, reminding them of the room’s other occupants. “I believe it was about those annuities. An Alpha can control an Omega child’s finances. If you were ignorant of your father’s existence then you would certainly never know of the money. She could use your dowery to her own ends.”

Crowley glares at her, “And just how much of my ‘finances’ were you hoping to gain from this little ploy, Mrs. Nutter?”

Doctor Nutter stares equally annoyed at her wife. “A question I would like the answer to as well.”

Mrs. Nutter stammers, “I wanted to reunite my family, obviously. Why have these two families so connected and be ignorant to it—“

“Lilith, enough with the gaslighting. Tell us the truth.”

Mrs. Nutter slams her teacup and saucer down. “Lucifer offered me £20 annually for help with this scheme. That’s a fortune to us!”

Crowley stares at her, then carefully packs his sewing back into his bag. Each movement is practiced and nearly mindless.

“With such a sum, I can hardly imagine what my annual payment could be,” he says bitingly.

“£1,200 annually,” Raphael replies, “with your sister’s money I suppose double that.”

Crowley’s sewing bag hits the floor. He does not retrieve it. “Come,” he croaks out, “again?”

“It’s a tidy nest egg. Most of it I brought to the marriage. Thankfully, Crow Gardens was not willed to me until I had married Julia. Otherwise, it would have been lost to me as well. The money, well, it’s not lost so much as given to my children. I hope, my son, that it helps ease your way.”

Crowley can only stare openly at his father. “£2,400 a year? What in the _world_ am I to do with that sum?”

“Whatever you like, Crowley,” Raphael says gently. “It will not replace the time I’ve lost with you, but I do hope that it will help ease the burden as an adult.”

Crowley blinks slowly. “You’d help me set up an annuity for my own children?”

Raphael brightens noticeable, “My son, I’d be happy to.”

Crowley glares at Mrs. Nutter, “I will not be taken advantage of by my family. If my siblings or my _cousins_ ,” he hisses, “learn of this money—“

“Crowley, your mother knows,” Raphael interrupts. “That’s why all of this has happened. She may not have told your brothers and sisters about it, but she knows that if she conducts them to, they’ll find some way to make you pay.”

Crowley rubs his face. “The list of things they’ve tried is… extensive.”

Mrs. Nutter fidgets and her wife glares at her. “What, Lilith? What aren’t you telling us?”

Mrs. Nutter colors. “They know about the infant. They know about the custody change.”

Crowley sees red. “Are you threatening my child?” he growls, hackles raised.

“I’m not!” Mrs. Nutter holds up her hands in defense, “Your family they—“

“And you’ve helped them,” Crowley growls, rising to his feet. “You’re threatening my baby.”

“Crowley,” Raphael soothes, but it’s past that.

Doctor Nutter grabs her wife and shoves her to her feet. “Call Lord Fellthrop!” she orders, dragging Mrs. Nutter behind her. “Stand down, Lord Crowley!”

Aziraphale must be summoned because he races in as Crowley stalks toward Mrs. Nutter. He wraps Crowley in a hug from behind. He speaks directly into the hair behind his husband’s ear.

“My darling, it’s all right.”

“She threatened our pup,” he growls, teeth bared.

He feels Aziraphale’s own answering growl, but he forces it away. “That will never happen.”

“She’s working with my brother. She wants money and she’s threatening our child.”

“Get him out of here,” Raphael demands and Aziraphale drags him from the drawing-room and into his study.

The door is closed and locked behind them.

“Angel, she is not welcome in this house,” he growls as his husband hauls him over to the chairs before the fire.

“No, she is not. I will have her sent home immediately,” Aziraphale agrees.

He sits down and pulls Crowley into his lap. Crowley frowns at him but watches his husband remove his scent cuffs. Pears envelop him and he unlaces his own. Pears and cedar should always be together, he thinks.

“You promise she’ll be gone?” he asks, trying not to let the soothing scent completely remove his anger.

“You have my word.”

That’s enough for him. Crowley sinks into his husband’s chest and wraps his arms around Aziraphale. The fire crackles.

“You’re hot, my dear,” Aziraphale says, surprised when his chin touches Crowley’s forehead.

Thinking quickly, Crowley answers, “I was sitting by the fire. Also, just went full Omega hormones there. I always get a little hot with that.”

Aziraphale hums understandingly. “Me too.”

They lapse into comfortable silence then. Crowley nuzzles his husband and says, “Turns out I have a dowery.”

“Yes, the Commodore told me last night. He was very worried that your mother had somehow intercepted it,” Aziraphale replies.

“It’s the first bit of good news we’ve gotten,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale chuffs gently. “I’ve had plenty of good news. You love me. You married me. We’re having a child. Money is just something to help us along.”

Crowley shifts back so he can see Aziraphale’s face. “I do love you.”

“Just as I said, lovely news.”

Crowley kisses his nose. “You asked me to come and see you in your study. I’m here now, not exactly the way I wanted to visit, but here I am.”

“Here you are,” Aziraphale rumbles and Crowley snuggles back into his arms.

He can feel contentment surging through him. He smells how Aziraphale’s scent changes to include something sweet, possibly pear blossoms. It makes his heart sing with affection. His purr starts softly in his chest and Aziraphale reaches up to spread his hand across Crowley’s sternum.

“You are so lovely, my darling,” he whispers as the vibrations tickle his palm.

“You asked me here for a cuddle, huh?” Crowley teases, nuzzling under his husband’s chin.

He considers his options, then reaches up and scents his husband’s temple and jaw. Aziraphale chuffs, happily and returns the favor. Crowley’s purr increases in intensity.

“I did actually have some business to attend to with you, but this is far more important,” Aziraphale decides.

Crowley hums appreciatively and soaks up the heat of the fire and the happiness that rolls through him. Aziraphale noses at his temple, finding where his scent oil is smeared on his husband’s skin. He kisses Crowley’s brow and frowns.

“You are too warm, still. Are you feeling all right, my love?” he asks, worriedly.

Crowley sighs, “I’m fine, angel.”

“Do you need to lie down? Should I call the doctor?”

Crowley sighs, more put-upon, “Aziraphale. I’m fine.”

His husband studies him, skeptically. “Please take care, Crowley. You are too precious to me.”

Crowley kisses him then, soft and pliant. “I need to look in on Uriel. What did you need from me, angel?”

Aziraphale rubs his hand down the plane of Crowley’s back and he arches into the touch. It’s electric. His Alpha rumbles, pleased.

“Perhaps I asked you here to be under my hands?” he asks as he rubs back up Crowley’s spine. His touch softens and stops. “I suppose not, in light of the vigil. That would be in poor taste.”

Crowley frowns. “Would it? We all grieve in different ways. If you need to be in control—“

“No. No, there are some traditions that hold for a reason. I will abstain until he is in the ground.”

Crowley nods, disappointed. Aziraphale kisses him chastely in apology.

“Now, my dear, I asked you here for two reasons. The first is business, so let’s conclude it quickly,” he rattles off, suddenly very professional.

Crowley sits up straighter and examines Aziraphale’s face. “Of course.”

“Michael’s trial is upcoming. Our solicitors have granted you a stay due to the arrival of our child. They will want your statement taken down in evidence all the same. They’ve posted a list of questions that will need to be addressed.”

Aziraphale looks in the direction of his roll-top desk. Crowley pats his husband’s chest, enjoying the strength of it hidden under his softness.

“I’ll see to it this afternoon. It might be a good use of my time sitting vigil.”

Aziraphale nods, “Thank you. That’s the business. The second is far more important.”

Crowley raises his eyebrow. Michael’s trial was of the utmost importance, so whatever his husband needed from him now had to be dire. Aziraphale, however, gestures to the items on the small side table by their chair. A bowl of steaming water, a bottle of turpentine, and the key to the back of his wedding earring all await them. He reaches first for the key.

“I need to clean your piercing,” he rumbles.

Crowley considers the logistics and slides off Aziraphale’s lap so his head rests on his husband’s knee. Aziraphale’s rumble deepens. He strokes back some of Crowley’s curls and pulls his earlobe forward. The key scrapes loudly against the earring and clicks. Aziraphale removes the backing and slides the earring from its piercing.

Crowley lets his eyes slide shut as Aziraphale cares for him. There is a splash and then a warm, wet flannel scrubs at both sides of his piercing. Turpentine follows it and stings a little. Crowley allows himself to drift away, letting his purr and the smell of his Alpha ground him. Aziraphale must scrub the earring and lock because it returns then. He slides it back into Crowley’s piercing and he locks the back on.

“There, my love. It’s healing beautifully. Would you open your shirt for me? I want to look at your claiming mark and tend it too.”

Crowley feels like he’s drifting. It’s similar to how he feels when Aziraphale takes control in the bedroom, yet not as deep. His fingers are clumsy as he opens the shirt at the throat and pushes the fabric aside. Aziraphale dabs turpentine onto the bite. The sting is much brighter there but welcomed. It shows just how many times his husband has broken the skin in his passion. Aziraphale must think something similar because he rumbles a low, affectionate growl.

Crowley exposes his throat and Aziraphale leans down and kisses the expanse of skin. “You are so good to me, my dear.”

Crowley purrs and lets his eyes fall shut. He likes this. It’s simple to sit at his Alpha’s feet and submit to him. Aziraphale’s hand circles his throat here and he thumbs at the skin under his ear. If his Alpha wanted, he could tighten his grip and deprive him of oxygen. Crowley drops his head back further, giving him control. As soon as he does, he feels himself drift away.

“So beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers. Then awed, he adds, “You’ve dropped in feral space. Oh, my darling. You are a treasure.”

Crowley can only purr and drift. He feels Aziraphale lift him and resettle him in his arms. Aziraphale kisses his neck and face while he holds him in his arms.

“What a shame that I’ve chosen to abstain,” Aziraphale chuckle, gruffly in his ear. “You are a delicious treat so warm and pliant. So beloved.”

Crowley just lets all this swim by him like treacle. He has no cares at the moment. Aziraphale’s mouth sucks on his earlobe and his tongue laps around his earring. He can only sigh at the sensation, knowing his Alpha has control. Someone knocks at the study door, but it’s nothing for Crowley to worry about. He feels his Alpha stir.

“Crowley,” he calls, softly, whispering into his ear. “Will you stay right here for me? Stay, my darling.”

His Alpha’s scent and heat disappear. He’s left in the chair. Crowley's brow furrows and he sniffs. His husband’s scent oil is in the air, but distant. He begins to worry. He shifts. His Alpha asked him to stay, but what if they are in danger? His heart rate accelerates and he begins to growl. Crowley tries to find and rouse himself, but he’s distant. It’s hard to do. He thrashes his head and keens.

Then Aziraphale’s hand cups his jaw. “Crowley. It’s all right. I’m here.”

And he cries out, relieved. He exposes his throat once more, but tears leak from his eyes at Aziraphale’s reassurance.

“Oh, Crowley, my love. I’m sorry,” Aziraphale growls pulling him into his arms again and moving them to the floor in front of the fire. “Let me see, my darling. Let me see.”

Aziraphale is asking for something, but Crowley is lost. He panics. How can he please his mate if he doesn’t know what he wants? He reaches up and begins to pull at his shirt buttons, but lacks the dextrality to open them. Aziraphale’s mouth sets overtop his claiming mark and sucks. Suddenly, Crowley relaxes. He sighs with relief.

Aziraphale kisses his scar and then thumbs Crowley’s lip. “My poor darling. You’ve drawn blood. I didn’t mean to leave.”

He leans over and kisses Crowley’s lower lip. It twinges. “You are so beautiful submitting to me, my dearest. I need you to come back to me now, though. Can you do that?”

Crowley isn’t as deep as he had been so it only takes two more kisses and calls to bring him back to himself. He lays on the hearth and Aziraphale leans over him. He strokes Crowley’s cheek.

“Hello, my dear. You’d gone for a little trip.”

Crowley yawns. “I did,” he slurs.

Talking is always hard after he drifts. “Would you like a nap?”

He can’t argue. Already his limbs are heavy. Aziraphale lifts him easily and he tucks his face into his neck with a sleepy purr. This too is submission but in a different form. He’s not drifting, he’s resting.

Later, he wakes in their nest, tucked in safely. He stretches and stands. Aziraphale has removed his clothes and neatly folded them on the trunk at the foot of the bed. He dresses and rubs his neck. The dressing room is empty when he rings the bell.Eve appears with a cup of willow bark tea. With practice, he pinches his nose and drinks it down in a gulp. She frets, rubbing her hands together.

“You’re getting sick,” she says.

He hands her the teacup. “I told you it was probably going to happen. Now, I believe it’s my turn to sit with the dead guy.”

She fusses at him for his coarse speech, but he ignores her. Crowley collects another plain baby gown from the pile Aziraphale brought into the room. Absently, he rocks the cradle and smiles at it. He tosses a shawl over his arm and grabs his drawing supplies. Crowley descends to collect a sewing pattern book, his sewing bag, and stationery. With a sigh, he enters the family chapel. Immediately, the overwhelming scent of lilies strikes him. His eyes water as he looks around. Uriel is gone, but the Dowager still sits up. She stands slowly when Crowley enters. He sets his items on a pew and offers her his hand.

“Thank you, Omega Lord Fellthrop,” she says sweetly. “I’m going to… rest. I’ve always heard that burying a child was the hardest thing a parent could do. I’ve sat here thinking about how I’ve lost two children in this ordeal. I’m more tired than I can imagine.”

She pats his hand. Crowley cannot find anything to say in return so he lets her go. He settles into the space she left. The pew cushion is warm. With a sigh, he collects the baby’s first gown and stitches the last two yellow flowers onto its hem. Finished, he folds it.

He lifts the pattern book and flips through it absently. “What do you think, Gabriel? More flowers? If it’s a little girl, that might be a little gender-specific. I want them to be… happy, you know?” He turns pages. “Ribbons? Greek patterns? Oo, here we go! Ducks!”

He arranged the gown on the page and using his pencil, carefully copies the mallard onto the bodice. Occasionally, he lifts the fabric to check the pattern. Once finished, he selects some thread and sets to work. It’s not very long, however, before a headache sets it. His eyes are weak in this light. The scent of lilies is overwhelming. Crowley sets the gown aside. He closes his eyes and rubs them.

“My dear?”

Crowley nearly leaps out of the pew in surprise. Aziraphale approaches him with a steaming cup of tea and a bowl of soup.

“Hey there, angel,” Crowley says with a happy smile.

“Eve asked me to bring you this tea. It smells unique,” he says haltingly.

Crowley takes the teacup, pinches his nose, and drinks it down in one gulp.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sitting next to him, “are you well?”

Crowley sets the empty teacup aside and takes the soup. “I’m fighting a cold, angel. Nothing to upset yourself with.”

“You should go lie down. I can keep watch,” Aziraphale frets.

“Nah,” Crowley drawls with a slurp of soup. “Gabriel and I were discussing the merits of ducks versus flowers on the baby’s gown. I need to stay here and continue the discussion.”

Aziraphale lifts the finished gown and touches each flower in turn. “What is the consensus so far?”

Crowley hands Aziraphale the other gown with the duck pattern. Some of it is outlined with black thread.

“I do like ducks,” Aziraphale agrees. “The flowers are lovely too.”

“Any votes for the next frock?”

Aziraphale reaches over Crowley to take the pattern book. He thumbs through the pages while Crowley eats. The headache sits behind his eyes, but when he leans against his husband it seems to ease.

“This is lovely,” he says showing Crowley the pattern for an apple tree.

Crowley considers it. “Sure, angel. I’ll get on it next.” He looks up toward the coffin, “See Gabe? Variety!”

Aziraphale marks the page and huffs a laugh. Crowley takes another spoonful, then sets the bowl in his lap. Aziraphale turns the page, but sees his mate stop eating and focuses on him.

“You’ve barely touched that,” he worries. “And you ate very little last night.”

Crowley frowns at the soup, “Don’t worry, angel. I’m just not hungry. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Aziraphale isn’t convinced, but he drops the line of conversation. After he’s looked at all the patterns and marked two additional pages, he takes the bowl and makes to leave.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” he says.

“Sure thing, Aziraphale. I’ll be here.”

He grabs his husband’s hand and kisses the back of it as he leaves the pew. Aziraphale smiles down at him, tenderly.

“Enjoy your debate.”

Crowley waits until he can longer hear his husband’s tread in the hall. Then he looks at the coffin.

“Look what you did! He’s a mess. This is your fault. And Michael’s. And think about your sweet mother. How can you live with yourself? Heh. Well, I guess I answered that one myself, huh?”

He slides down in the pew so his head rests against the back of the seat. The slouch is uncomfortable on his back. He doesn’t rearrange himself though. Without his sewing to focus on, he is aware of everything else in the room. There is a steady pace of rain on the window and the sputter of rushlights. The lilies overwhelm every other scent in the room. Crowley unlaces his left scent cuff and raises his wrist to his nose. It’s immediate relief from the pollen.

His headache is now a dull pounding, but closing his eyes doesn’t help. He throws his left elbow over his eyes and breathes in his scent oil. Then, with another shift, he sinks further down the seat. Before he knows it, he’s asleep.

He wakes in their nest, undressed and tucked in. He blinks slowly and looks around. Aziraphale has clearly put him to bed but then left. Crowley’s groggy and confused when he slides from the bed. The sky is dark around the curtains. It’s still raining. The fire is banked. He has no idea what time it is.

He finds his trousers and slides them on. The dressing gown Aziraphale ordered for him hangs from a peg by the door. He shoulders it and ties it shut. Then he walks barefoot down the hall. The house is silent and the candles are out. It must be the middle of the night.

Still confused, he stumbles down the stairs and looks at the grandfather clock at the base of the steps. It’s one in the morning. He’s slept for at least thirteen hours. His stomach growls. There’s nothing for it, he's going to have to solve this problem himself. If he rings the bell, he’ll wake some servant. He wonders if he can sneak down and find something on his own.

He wipes his face and leans against the wall by the clock. He’s muddled. It’s late. No one is awake. Except for his husband who is sitting vigil, he remembers.

Crowley stumbles down the hall to the family chapel. Aziraphale is bathed in candlelight. His head is bowed over clasped hands. They’ve never talked about religion. He has no idea what his husband believes. He leans against the doorway and watches him pray. His balance, however, is completely off so he falls to the floor with a loud thump.

“Oh, my!” Aziraphale cries.

Crowley groans from the floor and struggles to sit up with some of his dignity intact.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is at his side and helping him stand. “My dear, why are you out of bed?”

Crowley stares at him confused. “I missed dinner.” Then he touches his husband’s face. “Missed you.”

Aziraphale watches him with a mixture of amusement and worry. “You could have rung for someone to bring you something.”

Crowley leans against him and shrugs. “Once I wake up some more I’ll sneak down and grab an apple or something.”

“Will you now?” Aziraphale teases. “The same way you snuck up on me?”

Crowley sighs, “I’m out of practice. I used to be way better. I could have stolen holy water from a church and no one would be the wiser. Sneakiness in the flesh is me.”

Aziraphale guides him over to sit with him. “Sneakiness in bare skin, obviously.”

He reaches inside Crowley’s dressing gown and pinches his nipple. Then, as if he’s remembered where he is, his eyes widen dramatically, and his cheeks color. Crowley hides his smile behind his hand.

“Your father should come to relieve me soon,” Aziraphale says, gathering up his book. “He’ll keep watch until dawn. Then we’ll make our way on. Do you think you’re up for the funeral?”

“I’ll be there, angel. I can’t stand the thought of you going alone.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says.

Gratitude saturates his words. Crowley adjusts his dressing gown to avoid seeing more of it. “Course.”

They hear Raphael in the hall and both stand to greet him. He’s yawning, but awake.

“Off to bed you kids,” he orders.

“We’re going to sneak to the kitchens first,” Aziraphale informs him. “Need an apple?”

Raphael rubs his eyes. “Tea?”

“I’ll see what we can rustle up,” Aziraphale agrees, stealing a rushlight to guide them.

“Rustle? Really, angel?” he teases as they descend the steps into the below stairs.

“Hush or you’ll wake the hall boy.”

They’re surprised to find that the hall boy, while asleep, is completely separate from the kitchen. It’s probably due to the insomniac in the cook position. Aziraphale blows out his reed light when he sees that every kitchen lantern is lit. The cook bobs and weaves around, dancing to music only she can hear.

“My Lords!” Mrs. Tracy exclaims when she sees them.

She pats her hair and straightens her dressing gown. “What can I get for you boys?”

Crowley grins at her. “I missed dinner. Is there an apple? Also a pot of tea?”

Mrs. Tracy rolls her eyes, “An apple. As if I’m going to let the Omega Lord of the house just have an apple. I’ll scramble you an egg. One for you too, Lord Fellthrop?”

“If you would,” Aziraphale agrees, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist.

She moves quickly, putting on the kettle and setting up a tray. She keeps a steady stream of chatter flowing as she works.

“I was so disappointed to not be able to bake you a proper wedding cake. And I can’t do so now what with his lordship lying in state, God rest his soul. I’ve got everything I need for it,” she prattles.

Crowley steps closer to the ovens. They’re not actively burning, but the iron still gives off waves of heat. He shivers and Aziraphale pulls him closer to the heat source and his body.

“My husband says you make lovely currant scones,” Crowley offers.

“Why, yes, my love, but it’s her currant cakes that are her best-baked good,” Aziraphale clarifies.

She whips several eggs in a bowl and dumps them into a hot skillet. Crowley steps closer to watch. Aziraphale shuffles forward, refusing to let go of him.

“I haven’t made those in several years. I could whip some up in the coming days if you’d like. How about you, Omega Lord Fellthrop? What do you like to eat?” she asks conversationally.

Crowley can’t help it, he likes her. “I’m not a big fan of sweets, me. Your marzipan was delicious though. I’ve not tried many things, but everything you’d made since I’ve been here has been delicious.”

She hums, unconvinced, and stirs the eggs. She locates a teapot, spoons in tea, and pours water from the kettle over the leaves.

“Three teacups, if you’d please, Mrs. Tracy,” Aziraphale says when she adds two cups to the tray.

She hums and adds the third cup without comment. "You'll be needing a serving of willow bark too, eh?"

She pulls a separate cup down, adds that to hot water, and pushes it at Crowley. He glares at it while she stirs the eggs.

"Down the hatch," he grumbles, pinching his nose and swallowing the hot liquid in one gulp.

He sputters and gags. The cook only laughs. She slides the eggs onto one plate and she drops two forks with it. She takes his teacup and drops it into the sink.

“No use dirtying another plate. I know how you young married people are. Feeding each other all the time.”

Crowley smiles at her and lifts the tray, “Thank you for helping us. I know it’s late.”

She reaches out as if she’s ready to pat his cheek, then thinks better of it. “No matter, my lord. You all get some rest. Tomorrow will be a trying day.”

Aziraphale relights the candle from the stovetop and he guides Crowley’s way. They climb the steps back to the main floor and carry their bounty to the dining room. Crowley fixed his father a cup of tea and his husband takes it from him.

“I’ll deliver this. Eat your egg,” he says and disappears with their only source of light.

The dining room is eerie. Crowley finds his fork by touch and stabs blindly at the plate. Aziraphale comes back quickly and fusses.

“Terribly sorry, my dear. I have no idea what I was thinking!” He uses the rushlight to light the candelabra on the table. He takes the seat to Crowley’s right and kisses his cheek. “Let me fix you a cup of tea.”

As he pours, he frowns. “I take it that Eve has been sneaking you some kind of tonic in yours?”

“Nah, it’s just willow bark tea.”

Aziraphale studies him in the low light. “You’ve had a headache?”

“I get them pretty often. If we had a kettle in our den I wouldn’t even bother her for it, could do it myself. I might order one.”

Aziraphale worries his hands before handing over the teacup. “I’ll ask Cook for one tomorrow.”

Crowley hands Aziraphale his fork. “Help me eat this. I can’t finish it all.”

“My dear, that’s… only two eggs. You’ve barely eaten. I won’t steal your food.”

Crowley lifts a forkful of the meal to his husband’s lips. “You need to eat too.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth and takes the bite. Pleased, Crowley takes one too. The plate of eggs and cups of tea go quickly.

“I’ll take the tea tray to him,” Aziraphale decides.

Crowley leaves their egg plate on the table and blows out the candles. He walks in the dark to the base of the stairs. Aziraphale joins him quickly and they head to their den together. Aziraphale is already yawning, so Crowley offers nothing more than to add toothpowder to his toothbrush for him.

They clean their teeth and climb into bed. Aziraphale falls to sleep quickly but Crowley is slow to follow. He lays on his husband’s chest and listens to his deep breathing until it pulls him into slumber.

The next day is a rush. Adamette and Eve arrive with the mended dress. Crowley is actually impressed. The extra fabric from the wide hips has been removed and added to the hem in frills so it fits him in length. The sleeves are extended to his wrists. They've added a fashionable train. They’ve hidden the dress’s old V-shaped waistline under a wide ribbon of fabric that drapes. The lace is gone from the neckline. Instead, they’ve added a sheer collar that buttons at the throat. The tacky velvet ribbons have been ironed flat and stitched together to make a high waistline that ties in the back. The extra fabric has also been sewn into a ribbon for his sunbonnet. Eve puts his hair up into a simple bun and settles his hat. She tacks a long black veil to it and it drips over his shoulders surrounding him on all sides.

“I want you to stay warm,” she declares. “It’s another layer.”

“You look lovely,” Aziraphale answers, softly. “Do you need to wear my cloak, Crowley? It’s coming down out there.”

Crowley takes him up on the use of one of his waterproofs. They match in black cloaks, he thinks.

Then he begins to fight the power of his fever. The day breaks into individual moments. The pallbearers arrive and take the handles. Uriel weeps. They carry the coffin out into the rain and set it into the carriage. Aziraphale opens his umbrella and holds it over himself and his husband. They walk sedately behind the coffin, dodging what puddles they can.

Crowley wraps his arm around his husband’s waist and tries to let the sound of their footsteps, the wheels of the wagon, and the rain itself drive out the sound of Uriel’s weeping.He looks back just once to see the Dowager holding her in the doorway. She is too overcome to attend. Crowley sighs and continues to plod along in the rain.

The walk is the longest part of the ceremony. By the time they reach the churchyard, Crowley has a blister on the ball of his left foot. That’s not the worst of it, of course. The fever burns through him as they walk. He wants nothing more than to rip off the cloak. He’s so hot. The backs of his knees are sweating.

No one wants to stand in the rain, though, so the service is a quick process. Some vicar neither of them knows says the same prayer he says over every dead person. Crowley fans himself. Then they lower Gabriel into the ground. They each throw in a handful of earth onto the coffin. It’s over.

Aziraphale takes his hand and leads him away. The heat of his fever suddenly breaks and his teeth begin to chatter. He’s freezing.

The carriage waits for them by the Dowager House. Glozier the Groom sits dripping on the front bench. Bentley stamps his foot impatiently and Harry the Rabbit tosses his head. Glozier jumps down and opens the door to the carriage for them. Aziraphale hands Crowley in and slides in next to him. There’s a blanket in the carriage and Crowley grabs it and wraps it around himself.

“You should have stayed home,” Aziraphale says, frustrated.

He tugs his husband toward him and tightens the blanket around his shoulders. Crowley doesn’t argue. What could he say? That being with Aziraphale was still the right thing to do? If anything, the swaying of the carriage is taking all the fight out of him. He lets his eyes close and he tries to ignore the pounding in his head. He’s sneezing by the time they’ve gotten back to Zionview Grove. The cough arrives as they take tea. Doctor Nutter orders him to bed.

Crowley claims the dressing room as his sick room. He strips into his nightshirt and slides into the bed. It’s not his nest, but he’s too tired to care. He wakes later when the doctor is pressing a wet compress to his forehead. He kicks at the duvet, trying to escape it.

“Hot,” he pants.

Doctor Nutter opens the windows and the rain-scented air flows into the room. It’s deliciously cool and Crowley flops back onto the bed relieved. The sheets are soaked with sweat. He groans and coughs.

“You’re going to bleed me, aren’t you?” he grumbles.

“You have an excess of blood,” she explains as she pulls a leech from its container. “This will lower your fever.”

She attaches the disgusting creature to his arm. He groans and looks out the window. He cannot stand to see the thing. He hates this. He’s hated this since he was a child. They would lance his sister and him simultaneously and let their tiny arms share the same notch in the bloodletting bowl. The bowl was meant to fit one adult arm. They were so frail as children that they could easily fit together and not touch the rim or one another.

When she went blind, he envied her. She didn’t have to see those slimy leeches attach to their arms. Even now they make him nauseous. He hears her select another from the bowl. It’s cool and slimy on his arm. A third joins it. He gags. At the fourth and fifth placements, he’s wishing he could submit and drift in that magic place that Aziraphale sends him.

His panic makes his scent oil change. The Doctor grimaces and locates his scent cuffs. She ties them onto his wrists.

“You’re making a fuss,” she chastises.

Crowley tries to keep from vomiting. Soon though, the air from the windows chill him. He shivers. Doctor Nutter pokes a leech.

“That is good clean air. Breath deeply,” she orders.

In time the overfed creatures go somewhere. The windows are closed. Crowley is tucked under the duvet once more and he sleeps.

That is his existence for days. He sneezes. He coughs. His nose runs. When he’s awake he’s hot or cold, or he being bled. Sometimes he dreams that Aziraphale sits at his side and strokes his hair. When he wakes there is the phantom smell of pears. He’s too weak to call for his husband.

He tries to take off his sweat-soaked scent cuffs, but the doctor always replaces them. And she always brings leeches. His nightmares are filled with leeches. In them, his blood runs out of him and into slimy bugs.

Finally, when he swears the torture will not end, Eve comes when he’s awake but the Doctor is not in. She forces him to drink a large glass of water and spoon-feeds him beef broth. He tries to make her stop, but he’s too weak to fend her off. She force-feeds him. Then she bathes him and he feebly paws at her, begging her to stop. She’s crying when she finally tucks him back into bed. The sheets are fresh and he sighs pleased.

Then the Doctor enters with that ceramic jar and he begins to cry. “Please, no more.”

He’s uncoordinated and his hip is sore from disuse. Eve tries to comfort him, but he’s hysterical.

“Lord Crowley, you must lie down,” she orders, through her tears.

Doctor Nutter rolls her eyes. “Omega, get into the bed.”

“No more, please, no more,” he begs.

He falls from the bed, taking Eve to the floor with him. She tries to pull him up, but he begins to crawl toward the door to his den. He can get in his nest. No leeches in the nest. The attempt leaves him lightheaded and he sways.

The door to their den opens. “I heard someone— _Crowley_?” Aziraphale asks, before kneeling before him.

  
Crowley gasps and tries to grab his husband. The doctor is already at his side. She pulls at him, trying to get him to stand. He’s dizzy from the motion.

“Lord Crowley is being difficult.”

“Please,” Crowley begs, this time directing his words to his husband. “No more. No more leeches.”

Doctor Nutter tries to make him go to the bed, but Aziraphale steps forward. He wraps his arm around his husband’s waist and pulls him close.

“My dear, I didn’t understand you,” he wipes Crowley’s tears from his cheeks. “Now, don’t cry, my love. You’ll get well soon.”

“You just need to get into bed and take your medicine,” Doctor Nutter admits with a sigh. She informs Aziraphale, “I might have to sedate him again.”

“Before we go to such dramatic turns,” his husband argues, “let me try to settle him.”

“No more,” Crowley begs.

Maybe he needs to be a good Omega. Then his Alpha will save him from the leeches. He nuzzles Aziraphale’s chin and gets a warm, loving chuff in return. It makes him so happy! His sweet Alpha will protect him. He tries to smear his scent onto his husband’s neck but scent cuffs are tied there. He stares dumbly at them. These aren’t his scent cuffs. They’re attached in some extra way, wrapped in ribbons. He paws at them, confused.

“My dear?” Aziraphale asks, confused.

“Off,” he growls, showing Aziraphale the scent cuff.

Just lifting his arm that much makes him sway and Aziraphale pulls him closer.

“You need to keep those on,” the doctor repeats. “Your scent is very intrusive.”

Aziraphale rumbles but it’s not the nice kind. He reaches to Crowley’s wrist and battles with the ribbon. The scent cuff falls to the ground. Relieved, Crowley raises his scent gland to his nose and inhales his own piney scent. There is woodsmoke there with his fear. He swipes the oil across Aziraphale’s chin and nearly falls over.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale staggers to hold them both upright. “He’s so uncoordinated.”

“He’s ill, Lord Fellthrop,” Doctor Nutter states, irritatedly. “He has an excess of blood and bile. It’s a fever.”

Aziraphale catches Crowley’s other arm and as he unties the scent cuff, he sees the little red, swollen triangle bites that cover Crowley’s arm.

“What the heaven?” he asks, worriedly. “My darling, what happened?”

“Leeches,” Crowley moans, hiding his face. “No more, please. No more.”

Aziraphale is very still. He slides his arm under Crowley’s knee and he lifts him into his arms.

“Eve, please leave. I appreciate your help. I’ll ring if I need you again.”

She must take her leave because Crowley hears the door shut.

“Doctor Nutter, I believe you need to explain some things to me.”

“Lord Fellthrop,” she sighs, “what do you want me to say? I have been treating your husband. He is ill.”

“He’s also terrified,” Aziraphale states.

The doctor taps her foot. “He’s not fond of leeches. He understands that it must be done. He allowed it.”

“And when was that, exactly? He can barely walk and speak. How did he exactly ‘allow it’ recently?”

“He has been feverish for three days. I cannot get it to break. Releasing blood can—“

“You could kill him! You’ve been bleeding him for three days?” Aziraphale asks, outraged. “Good God, no wonder he’s weak. He has chlorosis—anemia of the liver!”

Doctor Nutter stares at him and Crowley can feel the growl growing in his husband.

“If you believe you’re qualified to treat him, then very well. Reading does not equate with—“

“Enough, Agnes. Get out of my house.”

There may be additional words, but they’re lost in Crowley’s relief. He sags into his mate’s arms. Then Aziraphale settles him in their nest and Crowley can’t help but sob in relief.

“It’s all right now, my dearest,” Aziraphale tells him, his voice choked with tears. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

“Angel,” he beams as he sags weakly into their bed. “Saved by my angel.”

He feels Azirapahle hold him as he drifts to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- India shawls are what you see in all the Regency fashion plates. Very long and very detailed.  
> \- Bloodletting was totally common for years. The practice finally stopped after beloved Princess Charlotte had a fifty-hour labor (yikes), was bled dry, and gave birth to a stillborn (wonder why)... then died. Public opinion changed then. Leeches, however, were very popular for a while.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! This chapter gave me fits. While rereading, I've found huge typos and errors in other chapters, so I'll be going back and editing. I might also clean some things up, just so you know!

Crowley is a vision in everything he wears, it seems. As Eve and Uriel’s Omega’s maid dress him in funeral weeds, Aziraphale is struck by his beauty. They wrap him in crepe and lace, yet he could be presented to the King and people would stare in wonder. Aziraphale guides him downstairs practically effusing praise for his mate.

“My darling, you are beautiful. I would never think that black should be the color that a person wears best, but I would be wrong.”

Crowley blushes under his veil. “Shaddup, angel.”

Aziraphale only chuckles and continues. “I might insist you wear that for a portrait.”

“You sure you want me to wear _anything_ for this hypothetical portrait? I could do my impression of a nymph—you seem to think I look like a sprite. I could just let the toga just hang subjectively,” he teases, fluttering his hand over his middle.

They reach the bottom of the stairs and their banter fades away as reality reasserts itself. Aziraphale is nearly dizzy with it. Instead of another day with his beautiful husband, he is ready for a funeral.

The saloon is a tableau of a funeral. The grieving wife lays across the arm of a sofa crying into her mother-in-law’s handkerchief. The mother of the deceased son hugs herself. The pallbearers gather in the entryway, chatting quietly. Then there’s his and his mate’s place in this strange painting: the lovely couple who benefits from such sorrow.

Aziraphale looks around slowly and takes in the scene. The pallbearers see Crowley and several of them lean their heads together and whisper. Crowley turns his back to them quickly and frowns dramatically. Aziraphale glares over his mate’s shoulder and the group quickly avert their gazes. The funeral furnisher chases them into the family chapel. From across the way, the Commodore inclines his head to him and joins his son and son-in-law.

“A dreadful day,” Raphael says sympathetically. “I offer you my sincere condolences on this sad occasion.”

Both he and Crowley accept these with the respect that is due. Crowley leans on him and Aziraphale wonders if his hip is bothering him. Before he can ask, however, Raphael reaches into his pocket and retrieves a silver vinaigrette on a long chain. It’s a rectangular box with ornate carvings along the side. The Commodore’s initials are engraved on the lid. Aziraphale stares at them.

“My son, are you quite well?” Raphael asks, ignorant of Aziraphale’s study.

He opens the lid and holds the vinegar-soaked sponge in its elaborate, little box under Crowley’s veil-covered nose. The Omega immediately lurches backward, his eyes fluttering.

“There you are,” Raphael declares, pleased. “Right as rain.”

He snaps the lid shut and Aziraphale leans closer to read: ACSJ.

“Your initials, sir,” he says slowly.

Raphael curls his fingers over the lid compulsively and pockets the box. He looks away as he does so, “Yes, a holdover from my first marriage I’m afraid. It seemed a waste to dispose of so useful an item.”

Aziraphale slots this information away. It seems, at odds, somehow, with his vision of the Commodore. The pallbearers all move toward the chapel and thoughts of initials are put aside. Raphael inclines his head again and stands aside. The coffin comes solemnly down the hall, serenaded by Uriel’s cries. Crowley is silent at his side, swallowed up in Aziraphale’s large rain cloak.

Aziraphale holds the umbrella over them both as they walk behind the coffin in the cart. Crowley is lost in his own thoughts, so ACSJ circles in Aziraphale’s mind. The trinket as a holdover from a loveless marriage seems reasonable, although he cannot imagine the Commodore keeping such a sentimental item after remarrying. But it’s the engraved letters that keep coming back to him as they dodge puddles and listen to the rain fall around them.

It has obviously been gifted by his former Alpha. Yet, why would Lady Burningstone keep her husband’s first initial if he didn’t use it? Why had she not only used his maiden name as she allegedly called him? She was very concerned about how things appeared to the outside. Would a vinaigrette not be public enough to include his proper married initials? He worries the thought over and over, then wonders why it’s caught his attention so.

It dominates his thoughts so that even the prayer by the gravesite is ignored. It’s not until Crowley is shivering at his side that he comes back to the present.

“You are ill!” he laments as he helps his husband into the carriage. “You should have stayed home!”

He means the words to come off gentle, but they sound angry and frustrated. Crowley wraps himself in a provided blanket and Aziraphale tries to soften his tone by tucking his mate in. Crowley huddles close, shivering. He sneezes multiple times before they arrive at home.

“I should have made you ride in the carriage instead of walk,” Aziraphale worries.

“No matter, angel,” Crowley answers, his eyes closed. “I get ill sometimes. Nothing to be done.”

Aziraphale wants to argue, but his husband did tell him he was sickly. It seems his words were no exaggeration. When the family and guests take tea together in the drawing-room, Raphael worries over Crowley but doesn’t seem surprised at his weakness. Crowley removes his hat and veil, but without them, he looks pale. Aziraphale fixes him a cup of tea and brings it to him by the fireplace.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” he asks, leaning over to grasp the end of his long shawl and wrap it around his shoulders a second time.

Crowley sneezes into his tea and then sags in frustration.

“You need rest,” Doctor Nutter declares. “Off you pop. I’ll be up shortly to see to you.”

Aziraphale wrings his hands. “I’ll send Eve up.”

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley says softly before setting his teacup on the table and taking his leave.

It’s lonely without him. Uriel and the Dowager both go to lie down and Raphael decides to read in the library. Doctor Nutter stays with Crowley. Aziraphale wanders the house, aimlessly. He finally ambles into his study when Shadwell brings him the morning post. There’s a letter from their solicitors organizing the change of the title Lord Fellthrop from Gabriel to him. He sighs when he reads it.

The second letter is from their bank. He reads it, relieved to see that the annual sum still left for the year is adequate. He seeks out Crowley’s figures from their previous accounting work and rereads his husband’s plans for the bills. Crowley had created three possible payment plans. He selects the one that is the most middle of the road and begins to write cheques to their creditors. Each goes into a sealed letter. Hours later, he rings the bell and sends the post off with Brian.

Pleased, he makes the addendums to the household accounts book and goes to see his husband. Crowley is tucked into the bed in their dressing room. The duvet is pulled up to his chin and he sleeps with perspiration dotting his brow.

“It’s a fever,” Doctor Nutter reminds him. “Nothing to fret over. He’ll be well soon.”

“It’s nothing related to… his hormones? You mentioned that a stressful situation could inspire a drop in his adrenaline. Do I need to stay with him?” Aziraphale asks as he pulls at his waistcoat.

“An astute connection and not impossible to discount,” the doctor says, then pats his shoulder. “Crowley was not stressed though. He’s just ill.”

“Yet all this is very emotional—“

“Lord Fellthrop, please trust my expertise,” she says as she leaves the room.

He nods carefully, then sits on the bed with his back to the headboard. Crowley mutters under his breath and frowns. Aziraphale reaches out and smooths the furrow in his brow with his thumb.

“Sleep, my love,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

He spends several hours at Crowley’s side, reading or answering correspondence. Sometimes his mate wakes, but he’s fever-ravaged and confused. The next day is no different. It wears on Aziraphale’s already weary mental state.

When Crowley told Aziraphale that he was sickly, he’d assumed that his mate would get colds like any other person. He thought maybe the rate that Crowley suffered from infections would be higher. He hadn’t expected the terror that would accompany a simple fever. Crowley wasn’t just ill, he was overcome. His skin lost pallor, his body lost weight, his eyes lost brightness. He slept for hours. When he coughed, his whole body rattled.

And if he wasn’t worried enough, Crowley doesn’t seem to wake enough to communicate. The doctor seems to think that his anxiety is misplaced. She chides him for keeping such a close watch.

“He’s sleeping, Lord Fellthrop. He’ll be sleeping the next time you check by too. He’s ill! Go and see to your guests. I’ll keep him company,” she says and chases him from the room.

He could go to his den, but it’s empty without Crowley. Instead, he seeks out his mother. The Dowager, Uriel, and Raphael are in the library, each with their own entertainment.

“Hello, Lord Fellthrop. How is my son?” the Commodore asks, setting his newspaper aside.

“Much the same as last night, I fear,” Aziraphale says smoothing his coat. “Doctor Nutter seems to think I am fussing.”

His mother smiles and pats the seat next to her. “Just wait until one of your children takes ill. It’s much the same. You spend hours worrying over them and knowing there is nothing you can do.”

Aziraphale settles next to the Dowager. He crochet sits in her lap forgotten. She pats his hand, “Now tell your Mama about the new and wonderful things you’ve discovered since you’ve wed. I can’t stand another sad conversation. Tell me something good.”

He turns his hand over and knits their fingers together like he did when he was a little boy. “Crowley loves children. He’s a natural with them, you should have seen him comforting the Virtue’s little one a few weeks ago. He’s determined that no child in our house will be fostered out. He’s had me fetch that basket you and Papa used in your nest.”

“That is wonderful news, my dear. Your father had a love-hate relationship with that device,” she teases and brushes some loose hair under her cap. “He swore that you and your siblings were watching us if we did so much as snuggle.”

Aziraphale blushes at the thought of his parents in their den. “Well, I’m sure it will be lovely to have them so close to us.”

She squeezes his hand. “He and I spoke about a series of items he’s ordered from London. It seems quite an undertaking.”

“Oh, well, yes. He’s very determined that our child will be well fed. He also struggles with the concept of a mother feeding her own babe less so ours can have milk.”

The Dowager frowns. “Yes, there are certain drawbacks to wet nursing. Some of those women depend on the income, you know.”

Aziraphale nods. “I hope they won’t come to depend on us and that role then. My husband is stubborn. He won’t give on this notion and I refuse to deny him anything.”

His mama chuckles and taps him under the chin. “You’re a good Alpha. I wish all Omegas had such caring mates.”

Her eye drifts over to Uriel. The woman has a book open on her lap, but she stares at the page. She hasn’t moved to turn a page in some time. He wonders if she’s lost in her head again.

“I wonder how I let your siblings down,” the Dowager admits. “Did I raise them wrong?”

“Mama,” Aziraphale interrupts her, “you cannot claim responsibility for another’s actions. Gabriel and Sandalphon, or Gabriel and his other conquests for that matter, knew their actions would have repercussions. Poor Uriel and their child were simply caught in the crossfire.”

“And what of your sister? She is not entirely at fault.”

“Nor is she innocent, Mama. I do wish that Michael had come to me instead of acting as she had.”

He closes his eyes at the passing thought: she couldn’t come to him. He was wrapped up in his new husband and their nest. Aziraphale chides himself. The night he learned of Gabriel’s actions he should have gone to his sister. Perhaps then his brother would be alive and his sister free.

“She did come to me,” Uriel answers in an absent way.

The Dowager and Aziraphale look up at her, surprised.

“She came to see if I knew. Sandalphon confessed to her and she left the Parsonage in tears. I was out for a walk. We met in the park,” Uriel says softly. “Michael was so angry, but she only blamed Gabriel. She said he had raped her husband. That wasn’t true though. She wouldn’t listen. I should have told Gabriel. I could have warned him! He might still be alive!”

She breaks down into tears and the Dowager abandons her son to wrap her arms around the other Omega. Raphael watches them both knowingly and stands to give them some privacy.

As he does, his grey-tinted auburn hair shifts and Aziraphale sees his earlobe. His wedding earring dangles like a teardrop from a post. It’s delicate and tasteful. It’s also tiny. Much like Crowley’s earring, the post made a single piercing. The Commodore does not have a scar from his previous wedding piercing.

This shocks Aziraphale. Society holds that it is bad luck to add the new wedding piercing over the old one. Often widowed Omegas have their new piercing adjacent to their first wedding earring. Divorced Omegas were uncommon, but Aziraphale was fairly sure that most let the piercing heal shut.

“Lord Fellthrop?” the Commodore asks, drawing his attention to Raphael’s face. “You appeared to drift away with the fairies.”

“Yes, I’ve been woolgathering. Let’s give the ladies the room,” he says and leads his father-in-law into the saloon.

“Perhaps we could play some billiards?” Raphael suggests.

Aziraphale nods and they enter the Billiard’s room. Raphael sets up the white and red balls. “Would you rather play mace or cues?” he asks looking at the wall.

Aziraphale selects the billiard cue. “I rather enjoy the challenge the cue presents.”

“A man after my own heart. Are you the type to set a wager?”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Commodore, but I am not the betting type.”

The Commodore rolls his eyes with the same rakish expression Crowley often favors when he’s teasing his Alpha. “Then we play for glory, Fellthrop!”

Raphael grins when Aziraphale plants the end of his cue on the ground. The expression doesn’t match Crowley’s grin exactly, but it’s a near thing. There are these strange moments when all Aziraphale can do is compare him to his husband. The Commodore leans over the table and takes his first shot.

The game is a good way for Aziraphale to focus his mind. It’s all propulsion and angles. The game has two strokes: cannons and hazards. Raphael is a terrible player. He aims only for Aziraphale’s ball, playing hazards violently. It should gain him the most points, but he rarely sinks the shot. Aziraphale easily wins with six points.

They play again. Raphael stays with his same chaotic strategy. Now that he knows his opponent, Aziraphale plays wide shots that make the Commodore chases his balls around the table. He wins with sixteen points that time.

Then, at the third game, Raphael changes strategies. He’s suddenly all mastery and grace. He clears the table and takes out every one of Aziraphale’s balls in two shots.

“I suppose I should thank you for encouraging us to make a wager,” Aziraphale says wonderingly. “You’re a tactician.”

Raphael resets the table, “Something like that I suppose.”

This time they’re evenly matched and Raphael wins with only one point above Aziraphale. He claps his son-in-law on the shoulder.

“That was enjoyable. Thank you for the diversion,” he says.

Aziraphale replaces his cue. “Think nothing of it, Commodore.” He pauses to look out the window as he does so. “You’d think the heavens were crying with this much rain.”

“I didn’t take you for a poet, Fellthrop. That’s more an Omega’s role,” he says carefully.

“I’ve never much gone in for certain natures controlling our creativity. Poetry is beautiful, no matter our secondary gender.”

Raphael allows him to open the door into the saloon for him. “Perhaps. My wife would disagree with you.”

“The Admiral is not one for poetry?” Aziraphale asks.

There is a split second of confusion on the Commodore’s face. “Er, forgive me, I was—never mind. In answer to your question, not really. She’s more of a newspaper reader.”

“Nothing wrong will being up to date on current events. I suppose it’s hard to do so out on the sea. Perhaps she misses it then,” he replies, helpfully.

“Julia is long retired,“ Raphael admits with a shrug. “She is much like you; she has little regard for long-held beliefs about our natures.”

Aziraphale nods. “I feel it’s allowed to direct far too many of our decisions.”

“Do you think Omegas can do what Alphas can?”

“Society certainly puts up stumbling blocks, but no-one is unable to accomplish what they set their mind to,” Aziraphale decides after a moment’s contemplation. “Sometimes I wish I has been a Beta. They seem to have far more options.”

Raphael shifts his weight at looks at the stairwell. “Lord Fellthrop, I’ve enjoyed our game a good deal. Thank you again. Would you excuse me for a little while?” the Commodore bows and disappears up to his room before Aziraphale can reply.

It’s a strange encounter. He twists his fingers together over his middle before disappearing into his study. That too is strange, he thinks. Just after a few days of working in it, the study has become more his own.

Gabriel’s desk sits mostly unused. He manages his own accounts and correspondence from his faithful roll-top desk. Crowley seems to favor working at the long table, but that may change when he’s well enough to use the Pink Room. He’d seemed so excited to have his own space that it makes Aziraphale chuff at the memory.

“I wonder,” he mutters to himself and opens the door that connects the two rooms.

It’s cool inside and shadowed. No fire or candle is lit inside the Pink Room. Even still, Aziraphale can take in the majority of the furniture. The two fainting chaises will be easy to reupholster with a fabric more to his mate’s taste. He studies the wall bookshelves. His grandmother only allowed books to be stored there that had pink or red covers. The content did not bother her.

However, Crowley would appreciate a number of botany texts. Aziraphale smiles, a plan in place. He gathers an armload of the rosy books and takes them to the library. It takes a few trips back and forth to transfer red covers for gardening books. Feeling cheeky, the Alpha also sneaks in a few biology texts. When he’s finished the bottom shelf of the bookshelf is far more to Crowley’s tastes.

“Better,” he says, pleased.

Feeling more accomplished, he returns to his study and his workspace. He sets to work drafting letters to the agent and the tenants. Once finished, he sits back and dusts off his velvet waistcoat. He’s accomplished more than he expected. As a reward, he selects a text from the pile on his desk. The Alpha settles before the fire and loses himself in a book.

“Aziraphale? Dove?” his mother calls him later.

Surprised, he shakes himself away from the page. She’s dressed for dinner. She stands before him, bemused.

“I thought my days of calling you back to reality from a book were behind me. It seems I must chase you up to get ready for dinner once again,” she jests.

Aziraphale stretches, stiff. “Good Lord, I’ve lost track of time.”

“So you have. Go up and see your Omega and get dressed.”

“Yes, Mama,” he agrees and kisses her cheek.

Doctor Nutter is absent, something that Aziraphale feels vaguely guilty for enjoying. Crowley is asleep, as he was when he left. Only this time, he’s kicked the duvet off. His body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“You poor darling,” he whispers.

He takes a flannel from the basin and dips it in cool water. Aziraphale climbs onto the bed and wipes Crowley’s body down. He begins at his legs and works his way up his husband’s body. Crowley groans, but it’s nothing like the sounds he makes in the throes of passion.

“Crowley, my dear, please get well. I miss you.”

The rest of the night that vision—his lost and ill husband—haunts him. He tries to stay present in the dinner conversation with his dinner companions, but he continues to think only of his mate. Finally, his mother sends him away.

“You’re useless to us. Go see to him,” she says, waving at him.

“There’s nothing you can do, Lord Fellthrop,” Doctor Nutter repeats.

“Oh, let the boy go up,” Raphael argues. “He’ll be happier there. Plus, Lady Uriel can be our fourth! Shadwell, could we have the card table? Or would you ladies rather some dancing?”

Aziraphale doesn’t wait to hear their decision. He bounds up the stairs like a child, taking two steps in each jump. He’s winded at the top of them, but he’s so delighted to be free of the others and their tedious chatter. He adores his mother, certainly. Also, he feels certain guilt and responsibility to Uriel and even the Commodore. He can admit to himself thought that he doesn’t enjoy any of their company compared to his Crowley.

How strange that before he met his husband this evening would have been a highlight in his usually sedate existence. He had yet to learn that a night could be wound in delightful debates over trivia and laughter. Now, he can barely survive a few hours without his Omega’s presence. No matter, he thinks pushing open the door, they can spend time together now.

Nothing, it seems is that easy. Eve is with Crowley when he enters the sick room. Crowley blinks at him blearily. He gives an absent smile, then closes his eyes and sags back into the pillows.

“He won’t eat,” Eve says, her voice frustrated and anxious.

“It’s all right, my dear. Doctor Nutter assures me that he’s on the mend.”

The maid looks ready to argue, but, instead, gives a curtsey and departs. Aziraphale waits until the door closes, then he sits at the foot of the bed and circles Crowley’s ankle.

“I suppose you’ll sleep here again, my love. Perhaps after the doctor checks on you this evening I can bring you into the nest. I miss you at my side, Crowley.”

He begins the process of undressing. Aziraphale watches his husband sleep as he sets his clothes on the chair for Quartermaster. Once he’s down to his small clothes, he sets to work removing his scent cuffs. On a whim, he climbs up the bed and scents Crowley’s temples, neck, and chest. The Omega gives a pitiful attempt at a growl before dropping deeper to sleep.

In his dressing gown, Aziraphale finds another book and takes up his sentry duty at Crowley’s side. He’s gotten into the habit of sleeping since their marriage, but it goes against his true night owl nature. He stays up until the wee hours of the morning reading. Every time Crowley awakes to a coughing fit, he’s there to prop him up and convince him to sip water.

Once Doctor Nutter arrives in the morning, however, Aziraphale admits that he is tired. He retires to their den, closing the door between the rooms, and drops into their nest to sleep. When he wakes, he uses the chamber pot, checks on Crowley, and collects the pile of post some staff member slid under the door to their den.

He sits down at his smaller den desk and sorts the letters. It’s the second in the pile that catches his attention. He breaks the seal and sets to reading.

_Lord Aziraphale,_

_Please forgive this very impertinent note. I had hoped to be properly introduced to my brother’s husband before sending such a letter. More importantly, I had hoped to beg my brother to forgive me._

_No doubt you already know how we, his family and first protectors, have gravely injured him. I knew my actions were wrong as I did them. When I could no longer stand to treat him and Ashtoreth the way we always had, I took the coward’s way out and ran. I will never have the chance to make amends to my sister, but I hope someday to do so to Crowley._

_With that in mind, Usher has written to me with the most alarming account of the intrigue my family is now engaged in. I pray you read this letter in its entirety. Know that I speak from a place of guilt, but also justice. First, guilt for my actions toward your husband whom I have wronged. Second, from justice so that I may protect him now as I should have before._

_No doubt you now have Commodore Raphael J. Samael as a guest in your house. His name is really Omega Lord Burningstone, my father. My mother refused to call my father by his Christian name_ _. She only referred to him by his surname._

_That said, you must know that my brother’s father is dead. He served in our mother’s position in the Army. He died, according to the war records, in his first battle. If you doubt this, I pray you write immediately to the War Department. The reason for this discrepancy and, no doubt, your confusion must be relayed to you by my father. I cannot tell; I am sworn to secrecy._

_I confess that I am greatly ashamed that I have been privy to my mother’s schemes for many years and have even helped to forward them. They mostly center on breaking the annuities my father created. He had foresight; he insisted that his family set his dowery up in such a way that a sum was set aside for any Omega children. It is a large sum. My father was one of eleven. Eight of those were Omegas and he worried that he would birth the same._

_He provided well for them; all of it goes to Crowley. My youngest brother comes into your wedding union a very rich young man. I am ashamed to admit that I have helped to keep him in the dark. Please ask my father to forgive me for forcing his hand—but my brother has long been misused for other’s gain. He deserves nothing but the truth._

_Protect Crowley as I have failed to do. Please care for him as we never did._

_Sincerely,_

_Beelzebub_

Aziraphale stares at the paper in shock. So many questions run through his mind. He begins to reread it when he hears raised voices. One is definitely his husband’s. He listens carefully and decides his Omega is having another fever dream. Aziraphale returns to his astonished perusal of the letter when he hears something fall. Concerned, he rises and enters the other room.

He’s shocked to find his husband on the floor, panicking. He’s angered to learn that his mate has been bled until he’s weak and lost. If all that were not enough, Beelzebub’s words roll in his mind. He sees Doctor Nutter and knows that she is completely false. He throws her from the house and informs Shadwell that the Nutters are no longer welcome.

Even now that the leeches are banished from their home and the fever has weakened, Aziraphale is entirely overprotective of his mate. Crowley is frailer than Aziraphale can imagine. He gathers his Omega up in his arms and tucks him into their nest.

“My darling, I’m so sorry. I should have paid closer attention,” he laments.

Crowley is past any ability to hear this. He simply repeats, “My angel saved me,” like a mantra until he collapses from exhaustion.

As he sleeps, Aziraphale pulls the curtains around their bed and keeps watch. In that time, he reads Beelzebub’s letter thoroughly. Some things immediately make sense: Raphael’s initials and his wedding earring. He never gave up his Jayanthony name, even after he was mated. No doubt the older Alpha he fooled was left abandoned and missing her mate.

The feeling makes Aziraphale growl and he cups his hand around the nape of Crowley’s neck instinctively. Crowley sighs in his sleep. This changes into a deep and tiring cough. Aziraphale props him up and gives him a drink of water. Settled once more, the Omega wiggles closer and drifts back to sleep. Aziraphale watches him with a mix of trepidation and adoration.

Of course, there are other questions. Aziraphale slips from their bed and seeks out a parchment. He writes letter after letter gathering information from the War Office, Usher Jayanthony, and the College of Arms. In each, he asks after Omega Lord Burningstone. He considers his options, then sends out several copies of the same letter asking newspapers about the Commodore and his missing twins. Finally, he seeks out information about Raphael’s Alpha and aging wife: Julia. Satisfied that they will, at last, have an answer, Aziraphale rings the bell and exits their den.

“See these are posted immediately,” he orders Wensleydale. “Ride them into Tadfield yourself if you must. They are of the utmost importance to Omega Lord Fellthrop’s safety.”

The boy takes the letters with a solemn nod. His departure brings certain impotence with it. Aziraphale can do no more. If Beelzebub has told the truth, then he needs Crowley at his side when he gains answers. Aziraphale pours his powerlessness into caring for Crowley.

It takes two more days of rest and fluids before the Omega is well enough to leave their den. He is weaker than Aziraphale can bear to see. Walking down the stairs leaves Crowley shaky and breathless. Yet, he is determined in a way that Aziraphale can only respect.

“Let’s go for a drive, angel,” Crowley suggests the third day he’s come down from their den.

“Are you sure, my dear?” Aziraphale worries.

“Sure. Call for the gig. It’s stopped raining. Take me around the park,” Crowley says giving a tired impression of a haughty landowner. 

It’s enough to soften Aziraphale. He agrees, but only after he sees that his mate is bundled up. Eve seems equally worried but agrees the sunlight and fresh air will do him well. Not all goes to plan. Harry the Rabbit has thrown a shoe, to Aziraphale’s displeasure.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Your Grace,” the groom argues. “Bentley is all tacked up. He’s a fine animal.”

“Oh, Good Lord,” Aziraphale laments, dramatically. “With that horse, we could go to the moon and back in the same amount of time.”

Crowley seems pleased at his theatrics. “Hello, Bentley, my boy! I’m afraid Lord Fellthrop is not as much of a fan of speed as you and I are.”

The horse swats a fly with his tail but is more still than Aziraphale has ever seen him. Any doubt he held about Crowley’s connection with the animal disappears. Bentley has clearly wanted his rider. If only his mate were well enough to ride as they’d both enjoy. Such speed would give the Alpha a fit, but they both delighted in it. Crowley is far too weak to hold such a post on the horse. Even as he walks out to the gig, he leans heavily on his husband’s arm.

To Aziraphale’s dismay, he’s exhausted by the time he’s walked the short distance. Aziraphale inhales, prepared to tell Crowley that the drive must wait until he’s stronger. As he does, Crowley sets his jaw stubbornly. Deciding to humor him, Aziraphale exhales loudly, then lifts his mate into the gig.

“I suppose the moon might give us a nice view of the park,” he declares and swings up onto the bench.

He tucks a wool, tartan blanket around his husband. Crowley suffers through it with only a few eye rolls and sighs. Aziraphale ignores it all and releases the brake. Bentley must sense that his favorite rider is ill, however, because he never tears off as he has in the past. Without so much as a defiant head toss, Bentley accepts Aziraphale’s limitations and keeps their pace steady and enjoyable.

They make a small loop, even less of a journey than Aziraphale had planned. Crowley slumps down on the bench the further from the house they get and he transfers more weight onto his Alpha. Aziraphale clicks at Bentley and turns them around. They have ridden for fewer than thirty minutes when they return. It exhausts Crowley to the point that he sleeps as soon as they return.

“Thank you, angel,” he slurs as Aziraphale tucks him under a blanket in the Pink Room.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, my beloved.”

His mother is waiting for him in the study when he pulls the door nearly closed. It’s just ajar enough to hear Crowley should he call.

“That was foolish,” the Dowager argues. “The weather is changing. Winter is on its way. You need to keep him out of the damp air.”

She repeats a similar argument the following day when Crowley asks again. The Omega just smiles and insists that being outside and in the sun helps him. With such an argument, Aziraphale is powerless to tell him no. They make it to the bottom of the garden that day.

The next morning, somewhat further yet. As they stop to turn around, a laden cart approaches. The driver, a pinch-faced man, waves frantically.

“Lord Crowley! Well met!” then his face blanches and he corrects himself, “I mean Omega Lord Fellthrop!”

“Hello, Mr. Arthur!” Crowley replies. He next addresses his husband, “He’s the manservant from Tophet. His wife was my nanny.”

Aziraphale nods, “Welcome to Zionview Grove.”

Bentley snorts disdainfully at the mules that pull the cart and trots back to the house. Once at the front doors, Aziraphale helps his husband down from the gig and watches Arthur pull up beside them. Servants hurry out to him.

“Lady Blanc has sent some things for you, my lord,” he says gleefully. “I think half these things your mother will have a fit when she sees are gone.”

Crowley leans heavily on his mate. “As long as it doesn’t cause trouble for anyone, I’m grateful.”

Arthur unties the tarp and allows the footmen to carry the crates and trunks from inside it. Crowley watches this all and offers his hand to the man.

“Tell Nan I said hello?” he sways in Aziraphale’s arms when the man shakes his hand.

“I will, Your Grace,” the man agrees, worriedly. “You’re unwell.”

“I’m recovering, yes.”

“You know what my Deidre would say. Rest. Sunlight. Fluids. You’ll be better soon,” he says, with a furrowed brow.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’m sure that Shadwell will see that you’ve gotten what you need before you ride back.” He’s not trying to be short, it’s apparent that he is running down.

Arthur doesn’t seem offended. “Of course. Take care of yourself.”

Aziraphale nods and helps his husband toward the door. He’s taken on more of Crowley’s weight than he’d like to admit.

“Shall we return to the den?” he asks.

Crowley shakes his head no, looking around at the pile of goods. “I could sit on the sofa there.”

Aziraphale helps him to the chaise in the saloon. “Would you like to see what you’ve been gifted?”

“Very much,” Crowley admits, bashfully.

Aziraphale can only laugh at his mate’s delighted curiosity. The commotion brings Uriel with her nurse, the Dowager, and the Commodore to investigate. Johnson appears with a crowbar and helps Aziraphale open one of the large crates. Once the lid is opened, the Alpha peers inside.

“My darling, I believe the rest of your sister’s art has arrived,” Aziraphale says as he lifts out several landscapes.

Crowley’s grin still has traces of exhaustion, but delight chases much of it away.

“Are there a set of four little ones?” he asks as Aziraphale continues to unload the crate. “One has a tiny red bird in it. I think they’d look nice in the Formerly-Named Pink Room.”

“I believe many of these will look lovely around the house,” the Dowager agrees, selecting an oil painting of a hillside. “Your sister was exceedingly gifted.”

“She was,” Crowley agrees.

His smile is bittersweet. However, that expression transforms when Aziraphale pulls out a portrait. It is clearly Raphael.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale breaths showing it to the group.

The Commodore blushes. “Lady Burningstone had it commissioned—“

Aziraphale studies him. “So it is you or Crowley’s father?”

Raphael rears back, shocked. His face flames red then bleaches pale.

“Angel? What do you mean?” Crowley asks, glaring suspiciously at Raphael.

Raphael runs a hand through his hair then sinks into a chair. “That’s me. My wife, Lady Burningstone had it commissioned when we were officially married—after I had delivered my eldest, Lucifer.”

Aziraphale asks the servants to leave them and settles next to his mate. “I believe this is going to be a hard pill to swallow. Is now the right time for this to be conveyed?” He rubs Crowley’s back.

“If you’re asking if I need to rest before I hear what you apparently already know,” Crowley snaps, glaring at his husband, “then, no.”

“My dear, you assume I know more than I do.”

Crowley is no less appeased. “You clearly know something.”

“I’ve had a letter from your sister—I mean sibling, Beelzebub. She swears to me that your father is dead and that her father is here in our saloon.”

Crowley’s expression clouds over and he looks at Raphael. “Is that true?”

His shoulders deflate and he sags into the chair. “It is.”

“Then why did you lie to me? Am I a bastard?”

Raphael holds up his hand, “First, you are _my_ son. I have only ever wanted to raise you and care for you. You know I have fought to have custody of you—but the reasons why require more telling. Will you permit me?”

His voice is soft and, while there are others in the room, he is clearly only asking Crowley. The Omega stares for a long time before giving a steady, but slow nod.

Raphael clears his throat and rubs his palms together. “I am the seventh child of eleven. My parents, Lucifer Raphael Samael the third and Ishtar Ashtoreth had the misfortune, in their opinion, of raising mostly Beta children. I had one Alpha brother, the fourth Lucifer—we call him Luke—and one other Omega besides myself. Otherwise, all Betas.

“One of these is my younger brother, Raphael Jacob Samael.”

“Right, so who are you?” Crowley growls, only breaking off to cough.

“Omega Lord Burningstone… Anthony Crowley Samael Jayanthony,” the assumed Commodore replies.

“When where is your brother?” Aziraphale demands.

“Dead. I will explain, I swear. If you will let me,” Anthony answers, holding out his hands desperately.

“I believe we should hear him out,” the Dowager replies.

No one disagrees, so Anthony begins his story again.

“Raphael and I could be twins, if not for the age. He fell in love with a young, rich Alpha named Bee—Lady Burningstone—now. She and Raphael were inseparable from the first moment they met.

“My father, however, felt that the Omegas in our family should be married off before any Beta. With such a limit, Raphael decided to join the Royal Navy and set out to earn his fortune. He argued that my father could not stop him from marrying if he was a self-made man.

“Bee was twenty-two and visiting us one summer. Her rut came on her suddenly. My father… was a schemer. He, well, I’m still not sure what he did to me. I simply know that I came to in her den hours later… and I was mated to Bee.”

“That’s immoral!” the Dowager cries. “You were forced!”

Anthony looks at the floor. “It was not a choice I would have made willingly. My father did not want a spinster Omega—I was twenty-seven at the time—and this solved his concerns with Raphael.”

“Lady Burningstone could have stopped herself,” Aziraphale declares, frustrated. “No one is that overcome by their instincts.”

Anthony gives a sniff of a laugh. “Perhaps not. But she was paid a good deal of money to not make a fuss. Besides, I was with child by the time her rut ended. She convinced my family to make me stay with them and if the child I bore was an Alpha, she would make the marriage official. When Lucifer, my eldest, was born she took me across the border to Scotland and had my ear pierced. I believe more money exchanged hands then.”

Crowley is not surprised by any of this, it appears. If anything it seems to reinforce his own experiences with his family. He takes Aziraphale’s hand, but it seems more to soothe his Alpha than himself.

“How have I never heard of this scandal?” the Dowager asks. “A child out of wedlock is now the heir of Tophet!”

“Because larger gossip was out—my father’s lover was discovered and his five bastard children officially given his last name. You’ve met Lilith now, she’s my half-sister,” Anthony says uncomfortably.

“Oh, my,” the Dowager breathes, amazed. “Lady Gretchen Ashtoreth-Lacker was my husband’s aunt—by marriage, of course. Metatron’s wife’s sister in fact. Her son…”

“Yes,” Anthony says, wiggling in his chair, “Hades Lacker was my father’s Omega. It was love, sadly. But love matches and the Samael’s do not have a happy ending.”

Crowley meets his eyes. “Your father was killed in a duel. I was told it was by a military man with a similar last name, but no relation. I’ve met him. The Dame had him to dinner.”

“Francis Samael-Wright is a military man and did kill him—but I’m afraid they were very related. He is your great uncle,” Anthony says. He frowns deeply, “If Bee had him at the house it is no doubt about the annuities I mentioned you are owed. Your dowery, son.”

Crowley rubs the pad of his thumb over Aziraphale’s fingernails one-by-one.

“Lilith told us that the Major claimed your father had ‘sullied the family name,” he says carefully.

“Lilith has been promised money from your brother if she can make this scheme work, as you know. Maybe that is why she has lied.” Anthony sighs. “In truth, Uncle Frank killed my father over his dalliances and how the family fortune would split up between his two families. It meant less money for Frank, in essence.”

“Lady Burningstone would have wanted to cultivate that relationship then,” Uriel muses. “She very much wants money.”

“I’m afraid Bee does. Perhaps she’d always been that way or perhaps marrying me changed her, I do not know,” Anthony says slowly.

“She called you by your surname,” Crowley whispers as if shaken from his thoughts. It’s hoarse and pain-filled.

Anthony’s face morphs with sorrow. “Only when she missed Raphael. She called me ‘Tony’ in private, but never around you children. In our nest, usually. She may not have loved me, but I was her mate and she did treat me well… until she was reminded that she loved Raphael."

“Raphael must have come home at some point?” Aziraphale prompts.

Anthony nods. “Indeed. He visited Tophet when I was pregnant with Hastur, I think. Raphael was heartbroken—I couldn’t even look him in the eye, but he didn’t hate me. Father apparently was very upfront with his actions… Bee was also very forthcoming with the amount of money she’d been paid to take me off my family’s hands. Raphael… went back to sea. The girl he loved was not my wife.”

Crowley’s voice is low, “That’s her true nature. She’s money hungry and cruel.”

Anthony says nothing, but his eyes reflect nothing but pain. “Years later, when I was carrying Usher, I was very ill. Nothing seemed to help. Lady Burningstone was busy in town, so I wrote to my family asking for a companion—Raphael answered the letter. He had climbed the ranks and was serving a leader in the Navy: Julia Witerbee. It wasn’t love, but it was comfort, so they were wed. She was at sea and he was lonely. He sat with me for days. We were able to reconcile and spent weeks together. It all changed when Bee returned from London—she bedded him.”

“Wait,” Crowley croaks, before breaking off into a coughing fit, “she carried us… because…”

“He was a Beta, son,” Anthony answers. “No doubt you were made with love. I can say, with absolute certainty that your siblings were made with duty on your mother’s part… respect for our union too.”

“My mother doesn’t love,” Crowley snaps. “If she took him to bed then it was out of jealousy for his marriage.”

Anthony’s eyes seem far away. “Perhaps.”

“You love her,” Uriel whispers. “She betrayed you, but you love her.”

Anthony looks at her in surprise. “Of course. She’s my Alpha.”

And the single earring makes sense then. He had not remarried. He remained true to his wife, Aziraphale thought.

“So the Dame got the twins—but then she sent you to war! Only you didn’t go!” Crowley yells, waving his arms. “Explain that!”

“I went in her place as she ordered. You and your sister were born early and small. I wanted to stay… I was already nursing Usher, I tried to help—she wouldn’t have it. I traveled to London to take my orders and Admiral Witerbee met me there. She was in a state. Her husband, my brother, had learned what Bee had done and he had… pretended to be me and run off to France. He had years of experience on the water, but none in war. He was gone quickly,” here Anthony cannot meet anyone’s eye.

His shoulders sink, “I care for the Admiral as best I can. She is much older than Raphael—much older than me, even. We are close friends, but she will not break her marriage vows and neither will I. We live as brother and sister.”

“But you fought for me,” Crowley prompts, “even when I wasn’t your son.”

“But, Crowley, you _are_ my son,” Anthony argues. “Your mother knew of Raphael’s actions immediately. She would not allow me to come home; she told everyone that her husband was in the grave. I took on my brother’s name and began to fight for custody of my children—but I was a Beta, according to the law, and had no right to children. Ironically, had Raphael not used my name, I would have been able to raise you all. An Omega is rarely completely separated from his children.”

“Omegas have no rights,” Uriel snaps. “We lose custody of our children before they’re even born.”

Anthony shakes his head, stubbornly. “I could have at least seen them more often.”

“You saw them?” Aziraphale asks, rubbing his thumb across the back of Crowley’s hand.

His mate is very still beside him.

Anthony’s voice is very small. “Lilith and I were always close. She would convince Hades to invite my children over. I would join them for a picnic—Bee put a stop to it after I stupidly scented my children.”

“So everyone knew you except for me and Ash?” Crowley asks, his voice wavering. “Everyone knew you were alive?”

“Your mother has been very cruel to you, son. Perhaps this is another way to punish Raphael and me. I can’t tell you what she was thinking,” Anthony admits. “I doubt you can trust me. I do not deserve it. However, I would like the chance to become your friend, Crowley.”

The room is very quiet. Aziraphale watches his husband. Crowley meets Anthony’s eye and holds his gaze.

“What about the money?” he asks carefully.

Anthony bites his lower lip, then sighs. “It was my dowery. I set a selection of it aside for any Omega children to have one as well. I divided the rest into annuities for each of my Alpha children—a gift when they wed. The remainder became my household account and pin money. I live off it now.”

“How have you kept this charade up, Omega Lord Burningstone?” the Dowager asks, frustrated. “You are clearly not a Beta Commodore.”

Anthony sinks back into his chair. “I avoid all connections to my brother’s past. It’s easier than you think. The Admiral is nearly eighty-six years old. She has ill-health so we keep little company. I’m an Omega living in London, so I cannot travel alone.”

“But you present as a Beta!” Uriel snaps, irritated.

“No, I will not lie about who I am,” Anthony says, then shakes his head. “Well, that’s not true is it? I cannot end the lie though. Raphael has forced my hand and left me with no recourse.”

Uriel mutters something to her nurse and the woman answers her. The Dowager sweeps invisible crumbs from her skirt. Crowley sags and rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He is drawn and grey.

“Son, you need to rest. This has been too much for you,” Anthony worries. “I’ll retire and allow everyone to discuss this… I know you will need further clarification. Please excuse me.”

He stands, curtsies, and takes his leave. Crowley shivers.

Aziraphale stands and offers his hand to Crowley. “I agree. You need to rest.”

Crowley is silent but allows Aziraphale to help him to their den. When the door locks behind them, he wraps his arms around himself and begins to cry. Aziraphale rushes to his side and hugs him. The harder he cries, the more he has to stop to cough.

“Crowley, my darling, it’s all right,” he whispers.

“He never wanted to leave me,” Crowley sobs into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “He wanted us.”

Aziraphale can do nothing but kiss the top of his mate’s head and rub his back. Crowley cries himself to sleep, tucked into his nest and his mate’s arms.

Dinner that night is subdued, but it’s not strained. Anthony’s honesty is refreshing. No one seems ready to ask any follow up questions, so they stick to general, safe conversation topics. They sit in the library as a group and Aziraphale reads aloud to them.

The next day, it rains. Uriel lays on the sofa with her feet in Crowley’s lap. He rubs her swollen ankles and watches his husband.

“What a shame, I was hoping for us to go for a ride again,” Aziraphale laments, watching the raindrops run down the windowpane of the drawing-room.

Crowley smiles at him, tired. “I think we have business to attend to instead. I think you need to write to your lawyers. I’m sure my mother will be thrilled to know that she will never get a cent of my father’s—Omega Lord Burningstone’s—money. If she escapes jail time for this shameful business, I will be surprised,” Crowley states.

Anthony stares at him disbelievingly. “Come again?

“Just pay Lady Burningstone and she’ll leave you alone,” Uriel whines.

“I have paid that woman,” Crowley growls, low and dangerous. “I paid back her hatred and unkindness with my sister and my fathers’ lives. Two of them died for her selfishness. One had lived as a pariah for her ire. I will not settle her debts so she can make more.”

Uriel throws a pillow at Crowley. “You won’t win this. She’s determined.”

Crowley considers this and grins at her, “I might send her a single coin.” Here he pauses for dramatics before raising an eyebrow and continuing, “But only if she promised to choke on it and die.”

Uriel snickers and kicks Crowley in the gut. “Knowing her, she’d bite the coin to make sure it was real first and break a tooth.”

The Dowager ignores their horseplay and tugs steadily on her embroidery. She says, “If this is all about money, then why didn’t she find a way to access the annuities? Removing the children, for example—”

Anthony growls at her, warningly. “How heartless do you think my wife is? She would never murder her own children!”

Aziraphale roars, “She denied her youngest child medical aid and that girl died!”

All the Omegas rear back and Aziraphale winces apologetically.

Anthony resettles and rubs his face. “I know. That’s my fault. I should have been there.”

Aziraphale is actually too surprised from this turn to react. He just stares, stupidly. Crowley, on the other hand, finally has a target for his years of frustration. He is spitting mad.

“You should have been! My mother neglected us. You could have—“ and here his rage is cut off from a coughing fit.

Anthony stares, pale and shamefaced. Uriel does not seem impressed. She pushes at Crowley with her foot, “I’m only saying that you can end this entire nonsense. You have the ability.”

The Dowager purses her lips, “Uriel, he cannot. He is an _Omega_. He has no power.”

And that’s when Uriel’s eyes narrow. “Don’t start that with me. I was controlled for years with that little speech. Crowley can make _anything_ happen with enough encouragement.”

The Dowager is unmoved. She tilts her head at her, knowingly. “Yes, because you or I could march into any financial institution and open an account. Or even have money withdrawn.”

Aziraphale looks at his mother. Sarcasm drips from her words. Uriel bares her teeth at her mother-in-law. It’s then that Crowley begins to laugh, a low and terrible chuckle that he hides in his hands. He bows over his lap, laughing until it turns into a painful cough. Aziraphale moves to his side and touches his husband’s shoulder.

“My dear?” he asks.

“My mother had access to the money all that time but she never thought to _ask_ me or Ash to withdraw it,” he coughs.

Anthony stares into the fire, “Bee loves to gamble. If she’d gotten access to those accounts, it would be gone too.”

“No matter,” Aziraphale states, “it’s a moot point now. She won’t get the money.”

With a disdainful sniff, Uriel interrupts, “Crowley, you’re at the center of every scandal that has come into my house.”

He stops rubbing her ankles and stares at her. “Lady Uriel, are you accusing me of being an accessory in all this?”

Aziraphale rears back in defense, “That’s preposterous, my girl! Crowley is just as much a victim of this as-“

Uriel yanks her feet back onto the floor. “As me?” she shrieks. “I assure you that _no one_ is as much a victim as me! What becomes of me when I birth this child and you take it from me? Am I to be the cow that feeds it and nothing more?”

She staggers to her feet and Crowley holds his hands out to her, “I think it’s very apparent that you’re more than capable to care for your own child.”

That stops Aziraphale and Uriel both.

“My dear,” the Alpha begins, but Uriel shakes her head.

“No, it’s already done. You’ve got it written and stamped. I am the incubator and nothing more,” she seems resolved. “I may think the real Commodore was a fool but I understand his need to distance himself from certain tainted children.”

“That is unacceptable—“ Anthony snaps, but Crowley speaks over him.

Crowley leans toward her, pleading, “You cannot compare yourself to him and his dalliance. You are claimed. You are carrying a child you are excited about.”

“I _was_ excited when he that claimed me was around to still do so. Of course, once I learned that he was passing his claim around to any harlot willing to spread their legs, the excitement faded. This is a blessing; I can separate myself from the disappointment,” she says, her voice fading away.

“You are this child’s mother,” Aziraphale states.

Uriel looks down at her middle. “When I saw Gabriel in that coffin I thought, I get a second chance. Then I thought about someone else touching their teeth to my neck and I wept. I only want him, but he wanted anyone who would give him the time of day.

“When I think about bringing this child into the world, I think about how they deserve someone who wants only them. I don’t want them, not really. I want my husband. What if I look into their eyes and see him? I’ll hate them. I already do. They’re closer to him than I am. He’s part of them.”

Anthony gives a strangled cry and covers his mouth with his hands. “Exactly,” he whispers.

Crowley stares at him and Uriel both with the same disbelieving gaze.

The Dowager moves to Uriel’s side and rubs her back. “Gabriel left his love marked on your body, honey. When you see that don’t you think about how he put that child in you—“

“No!” Uriel admits, tears pooling in her eyes. “All I can think of is the child he put into _Sandalphon_. He swore none but me. My Alpha—my beginning. I was his ending, his Omega! But he _didn’t_ stop with me.”

She sags into the Dowager and sobs. Anthony is hugging himself, tears swimming in his eyes. Aziraphale is unable to come up with any words to comfort her. Crowley slides toward her and takes her hand.

“He was wrong, Uriel. He hurt you. But this child, your child, is innocent in this. If you want Aziraphale and me to care for them, we shall with all our hearts. But if you want this baby—want to raise your Alpha’s child—then we will help you,” he says.

Aziraphale feels his heartbreak at the words. When he sees Crowley’s eyes, he knows the feeling is mutual. Uriel is not looking at either of them. She pulls her hand free of Crowley’s hold and touches her baby bump. Sadly, this is when her hold on reality—which has been so steady for the last few days—slips away.

“Gabriel wants this one to be his little princess. He says he wants to call her ‘Gabby’. She’ll be Gabriel Herald the fifth when she’s born. A strong, wise Alpha just like her Father,” her voice sing-songs.

The Dowager cups her hand over her mouth and tears gather in her eyes. “Of course, the baby will be perfect.”

“You think Gabriel will be pleased? I told him I will give him so many Alpha babies. If it’s a Beta I’ll drop it in the lake and make Gabriel knot me again,” she declares innocently.

She’s lost in some sort of fantasy where the truth is less painful. Aziraphale listens to his mother chastise her daughter-in-law for such inappropriate talk. Uriel just giggles and dances free of her arms and the drawing-room. The Dowager gives chase, concerned. He hears his mother call desperately for her nurse. Anthony pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at his eyes. He excuses himself and exits the drawing-room. The door closes behind him. Crowley and Aziraphale stare at one another.

“Did you mean that, my dear?” Aziraphale finally asks.

“What? That we’d help her care for the child? Of course.” He rubs his face and hides in his palms. “She’s going through something no one should ever have to experience. I can’t imagine,” his voice cracks and he clears his throat to avoid coughing.

His voice sounds heavy with tears, when he says, “I can’t imagine being in her place. I know just how she feels—you are my Alpha. You’ve become the beginning of every thought and feeling. You’re in my soul. I couldn’t keep going on without you.”

Aziraphale kneels on the floor before his husband, between Crowley’s legs. “My sweet mate. You are my Omega. My very story ends with you—when I fall asleep every night and when leave this earth I want you to be the last thing I see. I will never forgive my brother for what he’s done to our family, nor will I ever put you in such pain. You are my treasured mate."

Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek and Aziraphale turns his head to kiss his gloved palm. Since he’s close enough, he reaches up and tugs the edge of Crowley’s scent cuff away from his scent gland. He wiggles his nose between the fabric and the skin until cedar fills his senses.

“Do you hear yourself? You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Crowley. If I were gone you would keep going—you’d probably take Bentley and ride off into the stars,” he praises with a deep inhale of his husband’s scent.

“I’d rather go off to the stars together with you, angel. There’s plenty of planets up there. No one would bother with us. We could escape all these stupid schemes,” Crowley answers, waving his other arm at the ceiling.

Aziraphale sits back on his heels and watches the firelight shine on Crowley’s face. “I am so glad you’re well enough to be here with me. I am sorry our day has once again focused on your family’s ill manners and greed.”

Crowley groans indecisively, “Ngk, I think we need to get used to it. My family’s lack of propriety seems fairly consistent.”

He pauses then runs his hand through Aziraphale’s curls. “Do you believe all that Anthony has told us?"

Aziraphale gives a deep, thoughtful hum, “I believe so. There were so many holes in the lies that Mrs. Nutter has said, but less in his own. I believe we shall have some confirmation from my letters soon.”

“We could just ask my mother to visit,” Crowley says carefully.

“I would never ask you to be around that woman again,” Aziraphale states. “How she escaped being arrested still is beyond me.”

Crowley leans his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “What a mess."

“It has been another ridiculous day. Shall we ring for some nibbles and then have a rest?”

“Peckish again, love?” Crowley asks with a smile. “Perhaps Cook could make those cakes you so admire?”

Aziraphale stands and gives a little fidget of delight. “Oh! Yes! Those currant cakes are scrumptious. What a wonderful idea!”

He pulls Crowley to his feet and helps him across the saloon to the dining room. There are no currant cakes to be had. Cook insists on boiling a fortifying broth and ordering a good cut of beef for dinner.

“The cook asks me to tell you that she’s been reading up on tonics,” Shadwell tries to say magnanimously. Unfortunately, the accompanying twist of his mouth makes it apparent that he’s called her a “Babylon whore” internally. Aziraphale has to look away to keep from bursting out in laughter. Crowley isn’t any better, but he contorts his humor into a frown. He turns it on the butler. His displeasure is sharp enough to burn.

“If she makes me drink any more barley water, I might fire her,” he sulks.

Aziraphale does laugh then. “My darling! It seems to be helping! You’re regaining your health, slow though that recovery may be.”

Crowley hums, but it’s clearly in disagreement. “Perhaps.”

After their meal, Crowley sets his sights on the pianoforte. He settles onto the stool and begins to play quiet scales. Aziraphale chooses a chair where he can see his husband’s face and hands. Crowley has little patience for any mistakes he makes even though he is clearly out of practice. 

By the time he feels prepared enough to begin a melody, Aziraphale is nearly able to purr from contentment himself. It’s not in his biology, but moments like this make him jealous of the ability. Crowley plays a song that might as well be the theme of their recent days. It’s bittersweet with runs of excitement and delight mixed with moments of heartbreak. Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets the music pour over him.

“You play beautifully, Crowley,” he praises.

His husband does not reply. When Aziraphale opens his eyes to see him, Crowley is watching him with soft eyes.

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale eases back into his seat and rests his eyes again, enjoying Crowley’s skill. He opens them again when he feels someone else enter the room. The Dowager smiles at him and settles into another chair to listen.

“Lovely,” she whispers to him.

Crowley has transitioned into a more difficult piece. He’s too involved in the music to pay attention to his audience.

“I didn’t know he could play this well,” Aziraphale admits. “I’ve never heard him.”

“He accompanied Michael one night while you were away,” his mother replies. “He never played for his own enjoyment. This is much better.”

They both return their attention to his recital. He pauses with a series of missed notes. Crowley studies the sheet music, then replays the selection again, a few bars before his mistake. He repeats this section again, this time more confident. The final run-through is flawless and as confident as the rest of the page. Aziraphale, unable to contain his pride, chuffs. Crowley grins at him when he hears it.

“It’s lovely, my dear,” the Alpha says, trying to cover his embarrassment.

He can feel a blush burning his cheeks. His mother lays her hand on his forearm. When he looks in her direction, she radiates joy.

“This entire season has been nothing but highs and lows. I only wanted to see you settled and happy. I got my wish,” she admits softly.

“I am,” he agrees as he looks in Crowley’s direction. “I do wish it was not in this way of course. I never wanted these things for any of us.”

She pats his arm. “No good person wishes cruel fate on anyone. This is the way of things, Aziraphale. Trials and grief are countered with joy and contentment. We will laugh to counter our tears.”

He shifts uneasily. “And what about these days when the trials are numerous and multifaceted? How do we keep going, Mama?”

His mother gives him a shrewd look. “We have hope, son. We have love. You will support your husband and he will support you. In turn, you’ll hold up Uriel and me. And when we’re stronger, we’ll return the favor.”

Aziraphale frowns at her and looks back at Crowley. It seems too simplistic an answer to so hard a situation. Crowley finishes the song with a flourish and leans away from the keys with a self-satisfied smirk. It’s enough to make Aziraphale’s heart flutter.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he answers.

The following days are quiet except for the arrival of the post. It brings news that continues to confirm Anthony’s story. One day, though, the door to their room opens. Aziraphale doesn’t look away from his bookshelves but hears Crowley’s gait.

“Would you say that it’s a two or three book day in your opinion, my dear? I’m considering two novels for certain. I know it’s a bit lazy, but I do not want to have to come back upstairs for a second book once this one is finished."

When Crowley doesn’t reply, Aziraphale turns to face his husband. Crowley is standing by the fireplace, holding a letter.

“The Dame wrote.”

Aziraphale sets his selected books on his desk as he joins his mate at the fireplace. “She can’t hurt us here, my dear.”

“No,” Crowley says shaking his head, “it’s not that.”

“What? Crowley, my darling, what is this about?”

Crowley presses the letter into his husband’s hand. “The Dame has paid to free Michael.”

Before he processes Crowley’s words, Aziraphale looks down at the letter in his hand.

_Crowley,_

_I hear you’ve met my husband and Omega. Congratulations on discovering so many of my secrets. As you now know all, it’s time I get my reward. Your pin money can easily be moved into our household accounts. I’ll expect it immediately._

_If you doubt the seriousness of this situation, allow me to illuminate some matters. Your sister-in-law Michael Herald is much in my debt. I have loaned her a great sum of money which has helped her living situation at present. I believe that an additional loan and my character witness should place her back in Tadfield shortly. Joyous news, no doubt, for you and your husband._

_It is worth noting that I have encouraged Michael to seek a good mate for Uriel in these challenging times. Someone who is wise and well known—a titled peer who has sired and raised many children might be helpful. We both know that your health will not hold up to the challenges of raising a pup—especially one sired by a strong Alpha._

_She seems to think I should come to dinner this week and meet with the family again. Shall we say Monday next?_

The letter is unsigned as Lady Burningstone knew her son would recognize her writing. Crowley growls, low and possessive. Aziraphale feels ill.

“She is not welcome here,” Crowley says through his bared teeth.

“I will ensure Shadwell and all the staff knows that fact.”

“She’s bought out the warden,” Crowley continues to snarl.

It’s not the first time such a thing has happened. Other peers have used their charms, wealth, and titles to buy themselves degrees of freedom. To begin with, many avoided the general prison population and paid to live with one of the prison keepers in his or her home. Michael seems to have followed this route.

How has she managed to avoid the legal system? he wonders. This more than just a simple payout. This is an undoing of the British legal process. And, if she succeeds, how in debt will she be to Lady Burningstone? He looks back at the letter again. It clearly suggests that the Dame be mated to Uriel. It would certainly put her back in control of the funds she so desperately wants.

“We need to take this letter to the Magistrate,” Aziraphale decides. “I’ll ride there now.”

Crowley’s yellow eyes are much too worried for Aziraphale to stare into for long. “And if there’s nothing to be done?”

Aziraphale stokes Crowley’s back. “I’ll take my evidence to the Magistrate and see if he can straighten this out. I’ll be back before dinner, I should think.”

Crowley fidgets with his gloves. “And if he cannot?”

“Then I’ll head into town and sort things out there.” Aziraphale studies the bag on the bed. “Would you see that Quartermaster has me ready for that eventuality?”

Crowley nods. “Of course.”

“Will you see me off?” Aziraphale asks, tucking the letter into the breast pocket of his tailcoat.

“Sure, angel,” Crowley agrees.

He seems tired and sad. It breaks Aziraphale’s heart. Nothing seems easy these days.

“I’ll ask Eve to escort you back in,” Aziraphale decides and rings the bell.

It’s a little while yet before he’s ready to leave. He finds several other letters from Lady Burningstone to compare her writing. He needs his hat and coat.

He walks outside with Crowley leaning on his arm. He’s trembling and it breaks Aziraphale’s heart. The autumn day is crisp, but Crowley shakes like it’s the heart of winter. He had been doing so much better. Eve adds another cloak over Crowley’s shoulders and stands close by.

“I’ll see you around dinner time,” Aziraphale reminds his husband before kissing him soundly.

“I just read in some insipid Omega’s manual to housekeeping that you’re not supposed to kiss me in front of the staff,” Crowley teases, weakly.

“Hmm, well, perhaps I like being improper?” Aziraphale replies, coyly, and kisses his husband again.

He takes the reins from Glozier and swings up into the saddle. He tips his hat at the staff and his mate before setting Harry the Rabbit on the path out of the estate.

If not for the nature of his visit, the ride would be enjoyable. It’s easy and enjoyable. Harry the Rabbit seems pleased to stretch his legs without being asked to ride hard.

Sir Theodoric Pratchett’s estate is more groomed than Zionview Grove. He has not left the French style of trimmed shrubs for the lawns and wilderness. There’s something enjoyable about this too, though, he thinks as Harry the Rabbit slows by the front door. Servants hurry to care for the horse and Aziraphale is escorted inside.

Sir Pratchett calls him into the study immediately. They pour tea and make small talk. Finally, the magistrate calls his attention to the matter at hand.

“More of the same troubles, my lad?” he asks.

“Something similar,” he says and begins to retell the story. It takes nearly an hour.

The letter leaves Sir Pratchett startled. “She means to marry Lady Uriel? Surely she must know that custody orders such as the one you and your husband hold will not change just because she married?”

“I believe we can keep Lady Burningstone away from Lady Uriel. It’s this mess with Michael I am worried about. How can that be legal?” Aziraphale worries.

“It’s more of the same privilege that your brother-in-law enjoyed, I fear.”

Aziraphale frowns. “My sister killed two men—her brother and her own mate. How can the law overlook that based on her birth?”

Sir Pratchett sighs. “Some believe that Alphas with the right connections and pursestrings are more innocent than others. If your sister has cast her lots with the Jayanthony’s—she will keep their counsel and company. It is not a connection I would make.”

  
The words make Aziraphale curious. “Did you know my father-in-law, Omega Lord Burningstone?”

“Anthony Samael Jayanthony? Why yes I did. He was a good man in a bad marriage. His wife was long connected with one of his siblings, I think, but then suddenly mated him. He died in the war, I think,” Sir Pratchett says with a shrug. “My wife is more the gossipy type. You’d need to ask her if you need to know more. Why do you ask?”

Aziraphale sighs. “He’s not dead. He’s been living as his brother Raphael for the last thirty years and he’s just reintroduced himself to my husband.”

Sir Pratchett stares at him. “I see.”

“I’m glad one of us does. I’m completely at a loss. So much of this centers around his dowery and his wife, my mother-in-law, getting to my husband’s dowery,” Aziraphale sighs. “Money we didn’t even know existed until this past week.”

Sir Pratchett sighs. “And now that same woman has magically produced cash to pay off your sister’s lawyer fees. Yes, I can see why you are worried. But you say, for certain, that this man is Anthony Jayanthony—heavens that is an unfortunate name.”

Aziraphale nods. “The tale came with very unflattering news. My husband is not his father’s legal child, but his brother Raphael’s son. Anthony is still legally wed and bound to his Alpha, Lady Burningstone. Crowley is… confused and devastated.”

“No doubt. This is not the sort of news one wants after all that has transpired. On top of the joys such as your marriage, there has been nothing but grief. Lord Fellthrop, I will do my best to bring this to justice. Please, leave it with me.”

As Aziraphale begins to reply, a servant enters with a note for him.

“Oh, well, that’s unusual.” He takes the letter with a raised eyebrow.

The handwriting makes him worry. Why would Crowley write him? He breaks the seal and reads.

_Angel,_

_Get home NOW._

_Uriel in labor. Water broken._

_RIDE HARD, WE’RE HAVING A BABY._

_love, C_

Aziraphale leaps to his feet and nearly overturns the table. “Oh, Sir Pratchett! I must away! I’m about to be a father!”

He does not wait for much in way of goodbyes. Once he has his coat, hat, and horse, he’s mounted and riding for Zionview Grove. Worry nags at him. They should still have five weeks before the baby is due. Five weeks is the difference between a live baby and a dead heir. He ignores this thought and spurs Harry the Rabbit to run harder.

The house is in complete disarray when he arrives. Shadwell meets him at the front door and shakes his hand without permission.

“Congratulations, my lord!”

“Has it happened?” Aziraphale worried. He’d expected the entire process to take longer.

“No, the midwife has been sent for,” Shadwell explains, leading him into his home.

Aziraphale shucks his hat and coat, then races up the stairs. A number of servants come and go from the Yellow Room. Aziraphale enters and takes in the scene. The room has been set up for a laying-in room for his sister-in-law in a hurry. His mother is ordering furniture to be rearranged and Anthony is helping servants roll down rugs onto the floor.

Crowley struggles to help Uriel walk up and down the room, pausing only for her contractions.

“It’s going… surprisingly fast for a first pregnancy,” Anthony admits. “A few hours yet.”

“Isn’t this too early?” Aziraphale worries. “We should still have at least a month yet.”

Anthony makes a face. “It might be. Uriel has been through so very emotional situations and given many tonics. It can make the baby come early. You and I both know what that could mean. But, then again, she may have miscalculated when she conceived. It’s common.”

Aziraphale bites his lip and looks over at Crowley. This bedroom is not as large as others, but it’s warm and clean. Crowley sees his mate and smiles. He’s pale, but happy. Aziraphale notes how hard his Omega is trying to help, even as his own body struggles to keep up with the pace. Uriel’s nurse hurries to her side and Aziraphale claims Crowley’s waist with his arm. Crowley lets his husband hold him up.

“Hey, angel. I am so glad you weren’t too far away,” he says.

“I’m beginning to think I should never leave home again,” Aziraphale replies, kissing Crowley’s cheek. “Something always happens.”

“This, though. This is good.”

Aziraphale can’t stomp on his optimism. Childbirth is dangerous and there is a high chance, especially with the sedative Uriel has been taking, that their child will be stillborn. All of that is calculated long before this early arrival date. Crowley doesn’t seem to focus on any of that. He’s just excited, it appears.

“We need to sort out our bed-chamber,” Aziraphale says instead.

“I am not going to try to move us into the lords’ suite today, angel,” Crowley argues. “I literally just started the laying-in room when she decided to have a baby.”

Aziraphale chuckles and guides him out of the Yellow Room. “Agreed. I was thinking about our den. Shall we set up the cot?”

Crowley sits in their nest while Aziraphale fusses with the ropes that suspend the Moses Basket. The day’s excitement has already worn him out.

“You should take a nap, my dear,” Aziraphale encourages.

Crowley yawns but fights it. “Don’t want to. We’re having a baby.”

“This may be the last time you get to sleep,” Aziraphale teases.

The Moses Basket swings on a base. Aziraphale gives it a test push. It rocks evenly. He chuffs with pleasure. He kicks off his boots and stretches out on their bed.

“Come now, Omega. Rest with me.”

Crowley is helpless at that title, so he curls up at Aziraphale’s side and sleeps. It’s not long, however, before Eve knocks frantically on their door.

“You need to come, my lords.”

“Is she ok?” Crowley worries, struggling to stand, “Is the baby ok?”

“The baby is coming!”

Aziraphale shoves his feet back into his boots. Crowley throws his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders. He doesn’t even bother trying to walk, he just hoists himself onto his husband’s back and lets his Alpha carry him down the hall. Several maids giggle, but neither man stops to complain.

Uriel is in a shift. She’s braced herself on the foot of the bed. She’s bent double groaning. Crowley slides to the ground again and limps over to her.

“Easy, that’s it,” he says and rubs her back.

“Where have you been?” she growls.

“Fell asleep,” Crowley admits.

Uriel glares. “If you weren’t nearly dead of the flu, I’d kick you in the balls.”

Crowley nods, agreeably. “I appreciate the heads up.”

She has no witty retort because she’s bowled over by another contraction. Crowley stays with her. The Dowager sets items out. She has ordered rags, string, hot water, and scissors.

“It’s showtime,” she says with a nod. “Anthony are you ready?”

He nods. “Did she express a preference to the chairs or the bed?”

Aziraphale ignores all this. He looks around the room. “Where is the midwife?”

His mother shakes her head no. “She’s already engaged with a birth. It’s all right though. We’ve done this enough times between us.”

Anthony tosses a bath flannel over his shoulder, “Uriel will do most of the work.”

“It really hurts,” Uriel cries, hunching over.

“It’s time to start pushing,” the Dowager states. “How would you like to do this?”

Uriel limps to the strange collection of three chairs. Aziraphale and the Dowager each sit in one, while Crowley sits behind Uriel in the other. He winces as he folds his legs around her, but she leans back into his chest. Anthony kneels on the floor. Uriel braces her feet on the chairs in front of her and she holds out her arms to the Dowager and Aziraphale. With each contraction, she pushes on their chairs, but they pull her forward. Crowley helps move her hips.

“All right, everybody, let’s do this,” Anthony says in a deep, comforting voice. “Uriel, sweetheart, when you’re ready, deliver your baby.”

Strangely, it’s not what Aziraphale expected. For one, he tells himself that he will not look down to see his sister-in-law naked. It’s almost instinctual though. When his mother and father-in-law coach her through the contractions, he almost glances down. He makes himself look away. Then, it’s all for naught. Anthony announces that he can see the baby’s head and Aziraphale looks.

His eyes see dark curls covered in all sorts of fluids. Amazed, he looks up and finds his husband’s face. Crowley is exhausted, it’s apparent, but he smiles so warmly. Then he turns his full attention back to Uriel. Swear runs off her face and her eyes water.

“You’ve got this, breathe, poppet. Breathe,” Crowley coaches.

A little face appears and Aziraphale stares in wonder. Fear also lurks there, he’ll admit. Then shoulders, torso, hips, and legs slide free. Anthony raises the baby and strikes its bottom. The baby begins to scream.

“Congratulations, it’s a boy!” Anthony announces, overjoyed.

He hands the gooey, screaming thing to Uriel. The Dowager hurries to help wrap the child in a blanket. Uriel takes the child against her chest and stares down at her son. Crowley looks over her shoulder. Aziraphale takes in his husband’s face. Crowley watches the child with adoration. His eyes are wet. The baby stops screaming and gives little clicks while he looks around, unseeingly.

“He’s beautiful, Uriel,” the Dowager proclaims. “He’s huge! He must be full term!”

“He was conceived earlier,” Aziraphale whispers, relieved.

Uriel is pushing again, but with less pressure or focus. She touches the baby’s nose and cheek. She’s obvious to anything else around her.

“I’m so sorry, little one,” she says. “Your father is dead. There is no one to claim you. No one to scent you.”

Crowley frowns at these words but lets her have the time with the infant. Meanwhile, Anthony is busy and Uriel’s nurse assists him. There’s string involved and scissors. Something bloody drops onto the cloth on the floor and Aziraphale rears back repulsed. A cord is cut. The baby is separated from his mother for the first time.

“We can clean him up,” the Dowager suggests, holding her hands out for the infant.

Uriel, however, hugs him to her chest and turns away. “No need, he’s going to find his father.” She presses her hand over the infant’s face. He gives a confused cry. With a sing-song voice, she says, “Go find your father!”

The baby can’t breathe, Aziraphale thinks distantly. She’s suffocating him. He can’t react though. It’s too… distant. His mother is yelling. Crowley is moving. The nurse restrains Uriel. The baby screams once her hand is away.

Aziraphale follows the flow of movement and the sound to where Crowley has taken the child and hidden in the corner. He’s crouched down, feral, with his back to the room between the bed frame and the wall. The baby’s cries are softer. Aziraphale jumps up and runs to his husband. As he approaches, Crowley’s scent cuff falls to the ground, unlaced.

“Aziraphale,” he calls softly, “come here.”

Aziraphale moves carefully behind his mate. Crowley opens a few of the buttons on his shirt and holds the tiny child against his skin. Aziraphale reaches around and helps him undo his waistcoat and shirt. Crowley tucks the infant more securely inside his shirt. When his hand is still Crowley pulls on the laces of Aziraphale’s scent cuff.

“Angel, scent your son,” he orders, turning just enough so that the tiny child is visible to the Alpha.

Aziraphale pushes the blanket away from the baby’s skin. A low rumble, different than any growl he’s ever issued, rolls out of his chest when his wrist brushes the child’s forehead and chest. Crowley waits until the Alpha is finished, then follows the same lines with his own scent gland. The baby clicks again before he gives another little cry. Aziraphale tucks the blanket around him once more.

“I know,” Crowley says. “Papa’s going to take us to our nest. You’ll be safe there.”

Aziraphale pockets both their abandoned scent cuffs and then lifts Crowley into his arms. His husband hides their child in his shirt, then curls around him so the baby is hidden between their chests. Crowley nuzzles under Aziraphale’s chin and purrs.

“Excuse us,” Aziraphale says when he stands at the doorway to the hall. “Open the door for us.”

The nurse stands there, between them and the door. She’s crying. “But what if Lady Uriel is better? Will she lose her son?”

“She’ll always have her son,” Aziraphale answers, honestly. “Until she is no longer a danger to him, he stays with us.”

She studies him with dark eyes.

“Let them pass,” the Dowager orders. “They have the pup’s best interest in mind.”

Anthony is tucking Uriel into bed. “I need your help, nurse. Please,” he says. “The baby is safe with his fathers.”

Hesitantly, the nurse then steps out of the doorway and opens it into the hall. Eve waits for them at the door to their den. She opens it and steps back, her eyes averted.

“Thank you, my friend,” Crowley purrs when they pass her.

“I left food and hot water. Let me know if you need anything else,” she says and bows low.

Aziraphale shuts the door behind them. He carries Crowley to the nest and sets him down. Then it’s the same routine he’s done whenever he’s needed them safe in the den. Doors are locked and barricaded. The bed curtains are drawn. Eve has seen to everything else, so he returns to his Omega’s side. Crowley has stripped naked and climbed under the duvet. The baby lays on his chest.

“Bring me one of the baby blankets?”

Aziraphale grabs one from the trunk, but as he stands up, he’s frozen by the image before him.

“Oh, my treasure,” he whispers before climbing up into the bed.

He sits crawls up the mattress until he’s seated next to Crowley. Aziraphale pulls back the eiderdown and tucks the second baby blanket around their son. Then he pulls the duvet back up across Crowley’s chest. Crowley shifts the child until he’s close to his nipple.

“I haven’t done most of what I had hoped,” he admits. “We might have to get Uriel to pump… or wet-nurse.”

The pump resembled a torture device. Aziraphale had watched his mate apply it to his chest in preparation for the arrival of their son once. It looks painful.

“You’ve been too ill,” Aziraphale reminds him as he struggles to untie his cravat.

“Still, I had hoped,” Crowley admits.

The baby considers the option before him and after a few false starts, latches on. Crowley stares down at the baby in wonder.

“What are we going to call you?” he asks.

“No juniors,” Aziraphale declares, tossing his tailcoat and shirt out of their bed. “I want him to have his own name.”

“Uriel wanted to call him ‘Gabriel Augustus’ or ‘Gabrielle Augustine’.”

Aziraphale stops struggling with his trousers and tries to hide his disgust, “You like those options?” he asks.

“Angel, I want the kid to have friends one day. With a name like that he’ll only get picked on,” Crowley drawls.

He winces and tries to shift the baby. “No one ever told me that this would be so painful.”

Aziraphale chuckles and leans over to kiss Crowley’s bare shoulder. “We could use a family name?”

“None of my family names are remotely worth repeating,” Crowley replies.

“Not even Ashtoreth?”

Crowley bites his lower lip. “She was not particularly fond of her name.”

Aziraphale kicks out of his trousers without a shred of grace. Finally down to his small clothes, he settles against the headboard and snuggles under the duvet. Crowley snuggles closer and the baby’s face is just visible under the blankets.

“Perhaps a derivative of a name then?” he suggests, his voice softening.

“Like Ezra?” Crowley suggests. “After his Papa?”

Aziraphale finds himself emotionally blindsided. He’s a little choked up when he tries to respond.

“You want to name him after me?”

Crowley tucks his head under Aziraphale’s chin and his purr intensifies. “I do.”

Aziraphale kisses the top of his head. “Then I insist he has some form of your name also.”

“Angel, I’m not sure ‘Crow’ is a common name,” his Omega jokes.

“We can come up with something,” Aziraphale agrees, shifting the problem over in his mind.

“Samuel,” Crowley suggests very quietly. “For my fathers.”

“Samuel Ezra Herald,” Aziraphale says, carefully. “It’s a lovely name.”

Crowley settles against Aziraphale’s chest in a more deliberate manner. He shifts their son to his other nipple. Aziraphale is unclear if anything is actually occurring beside Samuel’s practice with latching on.

“He’s healthy,” Aziraphale says, awed. “I thought… I mean, he was so early. And the laudanum. I expected… not his health.”

Crowley turns his face so he can kiss Aziraphale’s chin. “Fortune’s wheel finally turned in someone’s favor. Maybe it’s Samuel’s. Maybe it’s ours.”

“I’m glad,” Aziraphale declares with a chuff. “I’m so very glad.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm live writing if you haven't figured that out. I had to add some chapters. My bad.
> 
> Also, this chapter has some stubborn men in it.

The Great War claimed many lives: Alpha, Beta, and Omega. It did not discriminate. The enemy seemed tireless in its advancement. What was, for many years, a source of patriotism and discussion, has become a funeral march of exhaustion and grief. Worse, the battles have only moved about the map without end. The newspaper referred to this as “the War Years.” Entire generations lived and died in this era. In fact, Crowley had never known a world at peace. He was born into the Great War and now his son is too. Samuel is less than forty-eight hours old and already the battles threaten his world.

Everything is still so precariously balanced in their lives, Crowley thinks as he glares at the newspaper in his husband’s hands. It’s not fair to add another complication. He lays in their nest with Samuel tucked against his bare chest. Beside him, Aziraphale reads with his ridiculous little spectacles balanced on his nose. His posture is coiled and anxious—no one could call him “lounging”. Crowley glances again at the headline. It announces that Parliament has called for a draft of young warriors.

Aziraphale’s scent tinges with his worry as he reads. “They could call you up,” he tells Crowley.

“As Omega Lord Fellthrop? I doubt it,” Crowley replies, patting Samuel’s padded bottom. “Plus my sight is poor enough to have them pass me over.”

“Usually, I’d agree,” Aziraphale worries, folding the paper and removing his glasses. “This article says that certain expectations have changed.”

Crowley frowns. “Will they bring you out of retirement?” he asks, his voice tinged with anxiety.

Aziraphale touches Crowley’s cheek and then Samuel’s blanket-covered back.

“I need to write to the War Office,” he says and slides out of their nest.

He hasn’t answered the question, which, in itself, is an answer. “You were injured. You shouldn’t be asked to go,” Crowley argues.

“If it’s between you or me,” Aziraphale clarifies, his tone lowering into an Alpha register, “I will gladly go.”

“No,” Crowley argues. “I will not let you sit there and write to volunteer yourself. You did your duty. Your duty is here, with us.”

His voice has a slight growl to it. It’s defensive, for certain. Aziraphale settles at the desk, but his hands fidget with his spectacles.

“I’m not going to row with you over this. I can easily get you removed from the draft list. You’re nursing. That’s an immediate pass,” the Alpha states, placing his glasses on his nose and rearranging the trinkets on his den-sized desk.

“And you’ve already fought and nearly died for the King. He can send someone else,” Crowley snaps, cradling Samuel’s neck in his palm.

He slides to the edge of the bed to better face his mate. “Aziraphale, if you write to the Crown and offer to go, I’ll—“

“You’ll what, my dear?” Aziraphale sniffs, primly. “You’re still recuperating from your illness, you’re nursing our child, and you’re rather stiff when walking this morning—how will you stop me?”

Crowley bears his teeth, “Easy, angel. You’ll sleep in the dressing room.”

Aziraphale yanks his glasses off and tosses them onto his desk. He stops moving then and Crowley wonders if he’s gone too far. Samuel shifts and rubs his cheek on Crowley’s bare clavicle. It must nearly be time to feed him again. It’s nearly every two hours, but sometimes the little beast wants more.

“You would kick me out of our nest?” Aziraphale asks, half amazed and half angry.

“It’s what you want, right? After all, you’ll willing to run off and play soldier again. You’d better get ready to sleep alone,” Crowley snaps, glaring.

Aziraphale stares at him, lips agape. Samuel squirms and rubs his face on his Omba’s skin again. Crowley scoots back on the bed and rearranged the pillows to make a wall for him to lean on.

Crowley sets his wiggling son to his breast and lets him suckle. Any parent who has carried a child should have their full milk supply come in soon—but it can take longer in situations such as his own. He’s producing some colostrum—the small amounts of early milk, but there is very little of it. To ensure Samuel is getting enough to eat, they’ve been using a glass bottle to feed the child. Crowley hasn’t asked where the milk comes from.

He’s tender as feeding is extremely uncomfortable. His entire chest aches from Samuel’s pulls. Even raising his arms makes his sore muscles hurt. His nipples are swollen and raw. Strangely, he welcomes the feeling right now. It’s better to have an outward pain to match what burns in his heart. The thought of living without his husband is like someone has hollowed him out.

Crowley peeks down at Samuel to ensure he’s latched on properly. He swallows against the burn in his eyes and lays back to stare up at the canopy over the bed. Aziraphale stands. Crowley refuses to look at him. The mattress dips and Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed with his back to his mate. When he speaks, he is quiet.

“What would you have me do, Crowley? I will not ask you to go. War is… _terrible_ and you have already seen too many of the horrors this world can manufacture. No, I will not let you go, my dear. You are too precious to me,” Aziraphale declares, his voice warping gruffly.

“And you think I’m willing to cast you aside?” Crowley replies, his voice just as fierce as before, but quieter. “If you write them and volunteer then you will face repercussions from me, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, really? Beyond withholding sex?” the captious Alpha says.

“I’d divorce you,” Crowley answers, his voice a whisper.

As the words leave his mouth, something inside him breaks. It wails in denial. Yet, it’s true. He finds that he means it, completely. Aziraphale stiffens.

“That’s unfair. This is my duty—“

“Fuck that, angel! Your duty is to me first. Your son second. This household third—and then, _maybe_ , the King or Prince Regent or whatever,” Crowley sneers. “You put this earring in my lobe and swore to protect me as if we were one person—“

“And you think that not going to war to protect you from the enemy is somehow _not_ protecting you? Crowley, that is insipid!”

Samuel lurches backward at his Papa’s raised voice, so Crowley shifts him up to his shoulder and pats his back. Samuel hates being burped and gives a displeased mew. Crowley bounces him and glares at his mate.

“You gave _plenty_ to the King once already. You grieve our lack of ability to conceive because of your duty,” he snaps.

“Do not throw that in my face, Omega,” Aziraphale growls, warningly.

“It’s not your fault, angel, I’m not saying that,” Crowley grumbles, with a roll of his eyes. He shifts Samuel and pats his back again. “I am saying that you have already paid the price and if you offer to go again… I will not be here when you return.”

“That’s not fair,” Aziraphale continues, still growling.

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Crowley admits as he wipes spit-up from his son’s mouth. “But I don’t particularly give a shit. I have been married to you for under four months and _nothing_ has been fair, even our courting. So, I’m sorry if it upsets you, angel, but if you write them, I’m gone.”

Aziraphale strides around the room, pacing in tight half-circles around the circumference of their bed. Samuel gives another belch and Crowley moves him to his other sore nipple. He winces as the baby latches on.

“You are asking me to choose between two very important—“

“No,” Crowley cuts him off, “I am not. I am telling you to choose what is important, which is right here in this bed, or to go to war because you want to. That’s what this is about, angel, duty or desire.”

Aziraphale spins, mid-stride to face him, “You think I want to go? You think I’d leave you for war?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Obviously. Married life is not what you expected, I think. No, I know it’s not—you’ve somehow entered the plot of a terrible novel where the author writes so many twists that she can’t keep up with it anymore. Your line is secure enough, so you can go play soldier again.”

Aziraphale shakes his head rapidly, “Oh, absolutely not, my dear boy. Do not make this about you! This is not about marriage. This is about following orders—I cannot disobey the King!”

“You cannot disobey your husband!” Crowley yells.

Samuel gasps in surprise and somehow chokes on milk. The infant gives a dizzying cough and Crowley, frustrated, pulls him up to pat his back. Aziraphale, however, has gone very still.

“Say that again, Omega.”

Aziraphale’s voice is low and dangerous. It makes every part of Crowley’s Omega nature squeeze and duck. He clears his throat and tries to will his body to follow his orders. The growl from his mate, however, makes him keep his head ducked and his eyes down.

“Go on, Crowley, tell me what you really want to say. Tell me how I am going to obey you,” he repeats. “Threaten me some more too with how you’ll leave me and take my son.”

Crowley lets his eyes slide shut. His temper has finally pushed Aziraphale too far. He knew this would happen eventually. For all of his husband’s good nature and willingness to put up with Crowley’s emotions, he’s finally crossed the line. The Dame used to have too much of his lip and take it out of his and Ash’s hides. The memories are nearly visceral. His hands shake.

Aziraphale is a gentleman, but he is also an Alpha. Moreover, as this conversation has reminded him, he is a warrior. He has taken people’s lives. His anger scents the room potently—this is none of their usual bickerings. His Alpha is furious.

Slowly, without raising his head, Crowley lays Samuel onto the bed and snuggly wraps him into two blankets. Gently, he tucks the infant into his Moses basket and pulls the curtain closed so he cannot see his Omba’s punishment. Without pause, he slides down the side of the bed and lands on his knees. Submissively, he bears his throat.

As he does, Aziraphale gasps, “No, wait, Crowley.”

Trembling, Crowley lets his eyes slide closed. The room smells like his spike in fear and Aziraphale’s fury. He hears his husband hurry toward him.

“My dear, my dear, no, this isn’t—come now, up you get,” Aziraphale says with false brightness.

Confused, Crowley finds himself pulled up to his feet. He staggers. His legs are weak with fear. He’s naked and shaking.

“Crowley, my darling, no. No, I would never,” Aziraphale whispers, pulling his mate to his chest.

Crowley’s tremors only multiply when Aziraphale cups the nape of his neck. Not only has he made his Alpha angry, now he’s upset him. Crowley’s eyes are suddenly wet and he hides his face behind his hands. Aziraphale had sworn he would never strike him. He’d _sworn_ and now Crowley had called him a liar.

“Hush, it’s all right, my treasure, shh,” Aziraphale soothes.

Crowley feels him kiss the top of his head. His mate rubs his palms down Crowley’s spine and then, carefully, lifts him into their nest. His tears burst free then. He wipes uselessly at his eyes. Aziraphale doesn’t fault him for this either, he just pulls him closer and tucks them into their bed.

“I let my nature get away from me,” Aziraphale apologizes, speaking directly into Crowley’s ear. “That was unacceptable. I’m sorry, my darling. You should never feel that you cannot correct me or disagree with me. I should never have… oh, Crowley, I am terribly sorry.”

For a long while, the only sounds are Samuel’s occasional grunts and the crackle of the fire. Crowley’s sniffles echo loudly in the room.

“Please don’t go, Aziraphale,” he whispers, tear-worn.

“My dear, I may not have a choice,” his husband answers. “Someone from the Heralds will need to go.”

“Then send Michael!” Crowley says, forcefully.

He pushes away from Aziraphale’s chest to meet his eyes through his tears. “She’s out. The Dame freed her—let her go and pay her debt to society! She won’t be held accountable for her actions any other way.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “I don’t know if I could volunteer my little sister—“

“Then volunteer your brother’s murderer,” Crowley says, heartlessly.

He knows it’s a low blow and he sees how it rocks his mate. “If she were in prison, we’d agree that she was serving her punishment for her actions against her mate and her brother. But she’s not. She got away with it—“

“The Magistrate assured me that he would look into it,” Aziraphale argues.

“He told us the same thing! Think about when he swore he’d arrest the Dame for kidnapping Uriel! Or when he promised to prosecute Lucifer—none of that is going to happen, angel! The law doesn’t care. This is your one chance to get some sort of vengeance for Gabriel. Think of Uriel! This is all she is going to get for closure!”

Crowley looks quickly at the baby sleeping in the Moses basket, “I would not give Samuel up for all the stars in the sky… but we only have him because Michael killed his father. If Gabriel were alive, then Uriel would be raising her son. We owe her. Do this for her, if no one else.”

Aziraphale stares at him with a strange mixture of acceptance and dubiety. It’s almost as if he cannot believe such words are leaving Crowley’s lips. The Omega rubs his throat with his fingertips, nervously.

After a very long time, Aziraphale does finally respond.

“I will write to the War Department and volunteer Michael for service. I will express my disappointment to return to the battlefield due to my injury. I will be sure to explain that you are unable to serve—I will mention the new arrival of our son,” he says mechanically.

Crowley watches Aziraphale’s shuttered expression worriedly. His hand falls away from his throat and he raises his chin. He lets his submission wash over him. He waits.

Aziraphale shifts on the bed, but does not come closer. Then, gently, he reaches over and touches Crowley’s jaw with one finger. Aziraphale runs his fingertips down the cord of his husband’s neck muscles, pausing only to trace his Adam’s apple. When his fingers meet Crowley’s mating mark, he pauses.

“Would you really have left me?” he asks, softly.

“If you went to war?” Crowley clarifies, “Yes. Not because I’d want to.”

Aziraphale presses lightly on Crowley’s scar. “Why then?”

“If you went and never came home, I’d be done. I’d order the coffin the same day. If I left before you died though, it would have been my choice,” he whispers. “Just like Anthony. He made a choice from his Alpha’s actions. It kills him every day to be away from the Dame, but he does it because it is the right thing.”

Aziraphale applies more pressure and Crowley licks his lips. “Would leaving me be the right thing?”

“If you were going to war again? Yes.”

“I would have so much more to fight for, if I went now,” Aziraphale confesses, tracing his thumb across the scar as his two fingers press. “So much more than before.”

“But you’d be willing to die now. You’d die for us.”

“I would.”

Crowley’s voice cracks, “And I need you here. I’ve been alone too long. I can’t do it alone anymore, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale leans forward and his breath is hot on Crowley’s throat. His lips ghost down his throat and his fingers slide away, down his side. Aziraphale kisses his claim mark and pulses his tongue against the scar.

“You won’t need to,” he promises, kissing the mark. “I won’t leave you, my darling.”

Crowley isn’t surprised when Aziraphale bites down, possessively. It makes him groan and wince. Aziraphale hasn’t broken the skin but is a near thing. He laps at the wound, before kissing it, and pulling away to look at Crowley.

“Your body is changing,” he comments, amused.

He cups Crowley’s breasts in his hands and circles his nibbles with his thumbs. Crowley grimaces. Aziraphale freezes and raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry, angel. ’S sore,” he hisses.

Aziraphale’s lips quirk in curiosity and he leans down. He rubs his nose across Crowley’s engorged chest and kisses his tender nipple. Carefully, he sucks it into his mouth and licks the bud. Crowley shivers. It’s a mix of pleasure and pain. Aziraphale palms Crowley’s ribs under his breast. He pulls off his nipple and kisses it delicately before turning the same licking and sucking attention to the other nipple.

When he pulls away he manhandles Crowley so he’s laying on his back across the bed. With tenderness, he massages Crowley’s aching pectorals.

“This is what we’re supposed to do, correct?” he asks, tweaking Crowley’s nipple. “And then the pump? To draw your milk?”

Crowley winces again but agrees. “It’s right; I’m just achy.”

“Should I stop?”

“Nah, it’s… better when you do it.”

Aziraphale smiles indulgently then rubs his scent gland across Crowley’s breast. He circles his thumb over the swollen bud again. Then he works his fingers back into the meat of Crowley’s breast. Crowley can only frown and gasp at the sensations. Aziraphale’s touch is different than his own. It’s not rough, but it brings a certain surprise with it that his own hands lack. He apologizes repeatedly. Aziraphale waves it away. This is his unspoken promise: he will care for his mate.

“Will you continue to try the pump?” Aziraphale asks, glancing in the direction of the items.

It masquerades as a tool—in truth, it’s a torture device. One end is a glass bulb that fits over his nipple and the other end has a large metal plunger. The suction it creates is excruciating.

“I think Samuel’s doing well enough on his own,” Crowley answers with a grunt.

Aziraphale repeats whatever he did the raise that reaction from his mate. The shiver of ecstasy and discomfort rolls over him again. Crowley grunts again. This time, Aziraphale reaches down and cups his cock as he continues his massage. Crowley is flaccid, but his body is interested. Aziraphale strokes him again and Crowley feels his body take notice.

“The baby is literally right there,” he reminds his Alpha.

Aziraphale chuckles and leans over to kiss Crowley’s mouth. “He’s asleep. I doubt that he’s old enough for us to scar anyhow. All the same."

He moves his hand to lay across the flat of Crowley’s stomach instead. The Omega shivers as Aziraphale reaches across his chest and begins the same treatment to his other breast.

“You were right to hold me accountable,” he says, surprising Crowley. “I am not a young bachelor any longer. I do regret the way I reacted. We should be able to disagree—argue even—without me asserting dominance. You are entitled to your opinion and should not be cowed for expressing it. Especially by me.”

Crowley turns his head so he can better see Aziraphale. “Thank you. I shouldn’t have threatened you in that way. It put you into a corner—“

“No,” Aziraphale stops his massage and places his fingers over Crowley’s mouth. “You have needed to protect yourself from harm for too long. That was a learned defense. I promised you that I would take you away from all that. I’m sorry I went back on my word.”

“Angel, I was cruel. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale traces his lower lip with his thumb. “As am I.”

Then he finds Crowley’s nightshirt and helps him into it. Pleased, he tucks Crowley under the eiderdown. Next, he pulls Samuel from the Moses basket and lays the baby on his own bare chest. Crowley reaches over and adjusts the blankets so they drape across Samuel’s back. Then, satisfied his baby is warm enough, he cups Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I love you, you know?”

Aziraphale smiles and it makes his entire face light up. “I do, my dear. I love you so, which I hope you know.”

Crowley props his head on his hand with his elbow planted on the bed. He watches, adoringly, as his mate touches their son’s impossibly small fingers. His body is tired though, so he sinks down into a pile of pillows and dozes. When he wakes, they repeat the patterns: fed, change, swaddle, hold. The hours blend together with a rhythm of powder, clean clouts, and bottles or sore nipples.

Outside, wind rolls through the trees, bringing fast-moving grey clouds. It does not rain, but the threat hangs. It’s comforting to be inside while it’s so dark outside. They stay together, as is customary, in their den for long, quiet days. On Samuel’s fourth day in the world, Aziraphale orders the bathtub set up in their dressing room.

“Perhaps I should have had them add more fuel to the fire,” the Alpha worries as Crowley slips out of his dressing gown and steps into the hot water with a sigh.

Aziraphale continues to fret, “I don’t want him in a draft.”

“Angel, he’s wrapped up like a sausage in his casing,” Crowley argues, looking at Samuel tucked in his Moses basket. “He’s close to the fire and he’s got two blankets. He’ll be fine.”

Crowley relaxes back in the water. “Come join me.”

Still worrying his hands, Aziraphale slips out of his nightshirt and dressing gown and slides into the water in front of Crowley. Pleased, Crowley wraps his legs around his mate and hooks his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“‘Snice, right?” he purrs.

With a chuckle, the Alpha leans back. “It is.”

They soak lazily and, at some point, Samuel wakes and grunts his displeasure. Crowley grins at him.

“Your turn is coming, you little beast. We need to be mostly clean ourselves. The water’s still too hot for you anyway.”

It is cooling quickly, as it always does. Aziraphale must think the same for he grabs a flannel and soap ball and sets to work scrubbing his body. Crowley takes the opportunity to rub his Alpha’s shoulders and neck, then shampoo his hair. He uses his hands to scoop water over his white-blond curls. Aziraphale chuffs and leans back into his massage.

“Thank you, my dear, that is delicious,” he declares.

Once he’s clean, he stands and wraps himself in a dry bath flannel. He towels his hair as Crowley washes his own.

“I’ve seen many of the ladies and Omegas are wearing some sort of bathing shift now,” he observes.

Crowley grimaces both at the words and the tenderness of his chest. “Seems ridiculous to me. Why bathe in a dress? It just makes more laundry.”

Aziraphale sniffs with amusement and Crowley admires how his pale skin has turned rosy from the heat of the water. He pulls on some clean small clothes, a nightshirt, and his dressing gown. Now clothed, he collects Samuel from his cot. Crowley gets a blast of his mate’s scent: all honey and pears. It’s new and seems to only be for Samuel. It makes him smile.

“Who is to say with the upper classes and their superfluous money? Maybe it was simply for modesty’s sake—all those servants in and out while people were in the tub?” Aziraphale suggests, unwrapping Samuel from his blankets.

The infant grunts again and Aziraphale touches his tiny brow.

He coos at their son, “All this off for you, sir. No need for bathing gowns for you.”

He strips the baby of his clout and plicher.Crowley swings his legs out as to dip his hair in the water for a rinse. Finally clean, he steps out of the water and dries off. He wraps his bath flannel around his waist, then quickly plaits his wet hair. Pleased, he kneels on Aziraphale’s discarded bath flannel by the tub. He holds his hands out to Aziraphale for the baby. The Alpha kneels by his mate and hands Samuel over.

“Your first official bath,” Crowley says, warmly.

Crowley supports his little head and lowers him into the warm water. He squirms and balls his fists. He’s unhappy as the water laps at his chest.

“You know he’s going to urinate in there,” Aziraphale says with false-brightness.

The baby squawks indignantly. Crowley frowns, disgusted.

“Right, you’re doing this next time,” he decides.

Aziraphale laughs, happily and begins to wipe Samuel with a flannel.

Crowley shakes his head, bemused, and scoops handfuls of water over Samuel’s head. The baby has a few moments to consider this before he squaws.

“Someone’s grumpy,” Crowley jokes, lowering Samuel deeper into the tub of warm water. “It’s just like swimming inside your mum, huh?”

The baby is even less pleased. He waves an angry fist and screams. Aziraphale jerks back.

“Perhaps this was a poor idea,” he says.

Crowley isn’t remotely hurried. He takes the flannel from his mate and continues to wash underarms and between his toes. Samuel screws up his face and screams louder.

“I know you’re unhappy, little one,” Crowley answers, wiping around his umbilical cord stump, “but this is good for you.” He directs his next words to Aziraphale, “If we give in to him now, just imagine what he’ll be like as an adult."

Aziraphale frets and fidgets. Crowley rubs the flannel across one of the baby’s wrists.

“Look angel, his little scent glands might be breaking through,” he notes, delighted.

He looks over at Aziraphale, excitedly. However, he is beyond the conversation. Just listening to Samuel cry has upset him. Crowley decides to give him a task.

“Could you set up his dry clothes, angel?” he asks.

Aziraphale fusses and hurries to do so. Crowley continues his task, tuning out Samuel’s displeasure as he’s cleaned. Finally, he lifts the baby from the tub, and water drips from his arm and the child.

“Angel, would you hand me a dry flannel?”

Aziraphale rushes to comply and Crowley wraps Samuel up quickly. Once the child is mostly dry, Crowley powders and swaddles him in a clout and pins it, then slides his plicher over his legs. Since they’re not headed anywhere but back to bed, he bundles him tightly in two layers of blankets. Samuel glares up at him. His eyebrows twitch with fury. He takes a deep breath and then wails.

“You’re as dramatic as your Father,” Crowley chastises, pulling him close.

Aziraphale drops Crowley’s dressing gown over Crowley’s shoulders. “That wasn’t a jab at me, was it?”

“I meant Gabriel,” Crowley clarifies, setting the wailing baby into his Moses basket. “Look, Samuel, give me like half a second.”

The baby screams louder and Aziraphale hovers. “He is easily frustrated, isn’t he?”

Crowley removes the wet bath flannel from around his waist and secures his dressing gown. He grabs the basket by the handles and carries Samuel back into their den. Aziraphale sorts some other things out in the dressing room while Crowley settles into the armchair by the fire and pulls the inconsolable baby to his breast.

“Seriously, Sam,” he mutters once the child latches on and is too busy sucking at his teat to cry, “that was a thing. My ears are still ringing.”

Aziraphale enters then and locks to the hidden passage between the rooms. He brings with him a pile of post and Crowley’s hair comb.

“It seems that every single one of your siblings has written you,” he says wearily.

He stands behind Crowley and undoes the loose braid. He carefully combs through the wet tangles.

“Goodie,” Crowley snarks. “Shall we read them in birth order or degrees in which I hate them least?”

Aziraphale’s hands pause and he works a flannel through the wet strands. Then he pauses his work to sit across from his husband. He pulls the first from the pile. “This one is from your brother Usher.”

Crowley nods, “Go on then.”

Aziraphale breaks the seal and scans the words. “Would you like me to read it aloud?”

Crowley pulls back the blankets to check on Samuel, “Just give us the highlights.”

Aziraphale reads quickly then reports, “Usher and Mary are expecting.”

“That’s not terrible news. The kid’ll be fat as a hog and talk incessantly.”

“They want you to set aside a portion of your pin money for their child,” his husband says, his voice strained with frustration.

Crowley points to the fireplace, “Letter one read. Burn it!”

Aziraphale hesitates, then drops the letter into the flames. “This next one is from Blanc,” he opens it. “She too is expecting.”

That actually saddens Crowley. He lifts Samuel up and pats his back. “Ninth pregnancy then.”

Aziraphale looks up in surprise. “So many stillborns?”

Crowley sighs, “If they made it that far. I hope she’s resting.”

He’s not going to be there to play for her or read to her. Ashtoreth isn’t there to fuss either. Blanc will be very lonely, he thinks. If the child is lost, as so many before had been, who will comfort her?

“This letter bears reading yourself,” Aziraphale decides and sets the parchment aside for later. “Let’s see what Hastur has to say.”

“Nothing good, I assume,” Crowley theorizes, bouncing Samuel. “Burp already, will you?”

Samuel gives a dissatisfied grumble, then glares, his eyes brows arching defiantly. His neck wobbles in Crowley’s hold as he tries to throw himself toward his Omba’s chest.

“Yes, all right, burp then you can eat,” Crowley says. “There’s an order to these things.”

Aziraphale skims the letter and tosses it into the fire, “Your family’s debtors have come for collection. It seems Hastur too has debts. He and his husband could no longer afford the house in Bath—they’ve gone to stay at Tophet.”

“Poor Blanc,” Crowley laments. “She won’t get a second’s peace.”

“Dagon next,” Aziraphale says as he opens her letter. “She’s still in Scotland and asks after your health. Anthony has apparently written her. She’s pleased you know the truth.She’s also heard from Tophet and she…well, there is no direct request for money, but she asks that you ‘see to Lucifer’s concerns’.”

“Hmm, into the fire then!” Crowley declares as Samuel finally burps.

It’s a massive noise that leaves both men staring at him. It’s a belch on par with old men who have drunk tremendous amounts of ale.

“Golly,” Aziraphale says, shocked.

“Just so,” Crowley agrees.

Samuel seems pleased with himself and burps again as if showing off.

“You are certainly of my brother’s genes,” Aziraphale states and chucks Dagon’s letter over the hearth.

He opens Lucifer’s letter, scans it, then with a growl of displeasure, throws it into the fire with the rest. Crowley snorts, amused, and settles Samuel to his other breast.

“Nothing of note?”

“Nothing new, for certain. Perhaps Beelzebub is better received,” Aziraphale agrees breaking the seal. He scans it, “Would you like to hear this one?”

“If it’s agreeable,” Crowley replies.

Aziraphale reclines and clears his throat. He begins to read:

_Dearest Crowley,_

_Thank you for your letter. I am very glad to hear that you and Omba have reconciled. I hope that I was right to correspond with your husband about this matter. Forgive me if I have misjudged. I worried that the shock might be too great for your health. Again, I did so with the best intentions._

_Omba is a gentleman who is long abused by our mother. When I first learned of how the Dame had misused him, I tried to use my name and secondary gender to right the situation. I have been unsuccessful with my attempts and Omba swears that this should not my priority. Perhaps we could work together and have more success?_

_As for news from here, the lines have moved us further north. I had hoped to be somewhere warmer and less filled with bullets by now, but fortune is not on my side. Carmine is unbothered by any of it. I swear she is so comfortable with the battle now, she might become the symbol of all wars from here on._

_To her dismay, Carmine has been offered a long-term teaching position at the Royal Military Academy for the Artillery. It would mean that she could return and make a home in London. It does not extend to spouses, so I would have to resign my commission to follow her. We are quite at odds on what to do. I believe this opportunity too good for her to pass up but, as previously mentioned, she is content in war. She refuses to accept the position. I confess that I would have her far from the battle lines if I could. If you and Lord Fellthrop discuss this and have any advice, I would be glad to hear it. We are at odds and unable to find a compromise._

_I was excited to hear that I will soon be an uncle. Carmine wants you to know that she will be happy to sponsor the child at their christening, should you need a Beta. I too would be happy to stand up (in spirit) for them._

_Know that I would be just as excited if you were to carry the child, but I find some part of me comforted that you will escape such pain and danger. I do wish the arrival of your child did not come at such a steep cost. Please give my sympathies to your sister-in-law. I hope your happiness is not a cause of contention in your household._

_Write soon, for war is nothing but explosions and gore. I don’t regret it, but it can become tedious. I enjoy your stories of pleasant rides in the country and days in the library. I may not be suited for peace but it sounds as if you enjoy it._

_Good health and fortune, little brother,_

_B. Jayanthony VI_

Crowley stopped nursing Samuel sometime during the text of the note. Samuel burps again and lays against Crowley’s chest, skin-to-skin. His dark eyes stare myopically into the fire, entranced by the flickering shapes.

“If we had advice on the topic indeed,” Aziraphale says, amused. “We’ve had the same quarrel.”

“For very different reasons, according to Carmine,” Crowley notes.

Aziraphale sets this letter with Blanc’s and then steeples his fingers. “I’m not sure what advice I would give them though. You and I could tell them that we shouted and then resolved to send my sister in our place?”

Crowley thumbs across the soft skin behind Samuel’s ear. He has a head of thin, dark hair. It’s surprisingly long in some places where it peaks out from under the lace of his cap. Crowley is temporarily mesmerized.

“I wish I were an artist,” Aziraphale says after a few moments.

Crowley looks up at him, “Feel the need to paint?”

“I wish I could capture this moment,” he answers, his eyes bright. “I did not know my heart could be so full.”

Crowley’s purr rolls out of him and Samuel starts, then burrows closer. His eyes flutter, not yet sleepy, but comforted. Crowley leans down and softly kisses the baby’s forehead.

“I know the feeling, angel,” he admits.

When he looks up, Aziraphale is watching him a mix of sexual hunger and pure adoration. It strikes the Omega at the same moment his Alpha’s scent changes—pears poached in Port with a note of sweet honey.

“Perhaps the Dowager or Anthony wants to babysit their grandchild for a few hours?” Crowley asks, licking his lips.

Aziraphale’s attitude immediately changes. “I’m not sure about that, my dear. I think we should—“

Crowley sighs, dramatically, “It would be just a quick roll in the hay, as they say. You and me, sans our pup, for some time alone.”

“Crowley, I just… I’d rather you two stay in the nest,” Aziraphale dithers, fidgeting all the while.

All traces of attraction have disappeared. He stands and moves behind his mate. Crowley pouts, then leans forward, rocking Samuel. He lets his eyes focus on how he cradles the infant. Aziraphale sections out his hair and begins to comb and dry it.

“I know it’s normal for new families to stay with their pack in the den for a few weeks. Aren’t you getting a bit stir crazy in here, angel?”

“My darling, I’m not being overprotective for no reason. Something is…” Aziraphale allows his voice to trail off and Crowley tilts his head backward to look up at him.

He’s watching them in the firelight, but his expression swings from adoration to anxiety. He shifts uncomfortably, then grips the back of Crowley’s chair.

“You think something is going to happen,” Crowley interrupts.

“In light of how often something has in the past, yes. These letters have just magnified my concerns. You and Samuel should stay in our den for a while yet, just until it’s safer,” Aziraphale says, kindly, but intransigent.

Crowley considers his husband’s posture. “Angel, the things that threaten us today will still be there later this year. Besides, we’ll have to have him christened in the next week or so.”

Aziraphale rubs his hands on the back of the chair. “Crowley, your mother has directly threatened to take any child of ours away. If she knows he was born then she will be keeping an ear out for any christenings at St. Matthew’s.”

“The Dame is creative—ingenious even—in her ways of causing harm, but how is she going to take an infant from us in a church?” Crowley asks, equally irritated and worried.

Aziraphale only frowns heavier. Crowley shifts the child closer. He does feel a thread of alarm that someone will touch his baby. Aziraphale resumes rubbing Crowley’s tresses with the bath flannel.

“There will be many people there—she won’t have a chance,” he declares, rocking the newborn.

“What if she separates us?” Aziraphale argues, hands working double time in his anxiety. “If she gets between you and I? Then what? If she harms you, Crowley, or the baby, I’ll… I’ll kill her. I’m not sure I could live with that. I do know that I cannot live knowing that I allowed one of you to get hurt though.”

Crowley swallows down the growing feeling of panic, “We’ll just go to a different church outside of Tadfield? We could go to London. She won’t anticipate that.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and his hands are instead in Crowley’s hair. “No, I’m not comfortable with that. I’m sorry, no, Crowley, we’re not going out of this house for a while yet.”

“Fine!” Crowley yells, which makes the baby jump. “Then call the bloody bishop or whomever here to the family chapel. I need someone to officiate when I present him to his bloody paranoid Alpha so he can be scented!”

Samuel is startled silent but begins to make a series of grunts that suggest he might cry. Crowley tucks him safely under his chin and lets his purr rumble and console the infant.

Aziraphale, however, is staring at Crowley. “That’s what this is about?” he asks, surprised.

Crowley glares, but when he answers, he keeps his tone soft as so not to upset Samuel. “Of course that is what this about, Aziraphale! What else could it be?”

Anger stews in him. Sure, he’d never really expected to be a parent and survive to tell the tale, but here he is, holding his son. He wants to do this right—with all the bells and whistles. Damn his family for stealing another moment of joy from him. He feels tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.

“He can’t be christened in the nest, angel,” Crowley states, trying for firm, but ending up somewhere in the sarcastic tone instead.

“You really want a public scenting?” Aziraphale asks, starry-eyed. “My dear, I never hoped—it’s really only done for the heir to an estate.”

“Aziraphale! Who do you think we’re raising, angel? You are the Marquess of Fellthrop and this is the Earl. You can’t hide this up your sleeve like a dead dove,” Crowley answers, dabbing at his eyes.

“Why in the world would I have a dead dove in my sleeve?” Aziraphale asks, momentarily deterred from his previous line of conversation.

“Ngk, my point is that your heir needs public recognition. He’s not ours by birth. I don’t want any future challenges, in the, you know, inheritance game.”

Aziraphale focuses on him. “Wait, my dear, are you telling me that Samuel is an Alpha?”

“He sure bloody isn’t a Beta,” Crowley replies, lowering the baby to lay across the length of his arm with his head supported in his palm.

Aziraphale comes to his side and leans down. Samuel shivers so Aziraphale wraps the blankets over his bare chest. Then he takes the newborn’s arm in his hand and examines his son’s wrist.

“See what I mean? Scent glands,” Crowley says, nodding at the tiny pin prick-like indentation over his little tendon.

Aziraphale studies this closely. “Have you seen any Omega marks?”

Crowley shrugs. “Not that I’ve recognized. You?”

Aziraphale goes to his desk and retrieves his spectacles. Then he takes the baby into his arms and moves closer to the fireplace. Using this light, he carefully looks his son over, moving the fabric aside to continue his inspection.

As he does so, he whispers lovingly to Samuel, “Such a strong little lad you are. Yes, you’re going to make a fine horseman one day and a dancer with these legs, I declare. I believe your Omba will teach you to play the pianoforte—look at these lovely, long fingers. You’ll be a natural. Will you sit with your old Papa and read too?”

Crowley is the one struck dumb with love now. He stumbles over to the bedside to find his sketchpad and pencils. He clumsily opens to a clean page and begins to draw with quick, light strokes. The way the firelight lines Aziraphale’s hair and shoulder. The sure manner he holds Samuel. The infant’s trusting study of his Papa. It’s beautiful. Crowley wishes he could stop time and encapsulate this moment in a bauble.

“Your Omba has the most lovely Omega mark on his temple. I find myself kissing it just because it’s so exquisite,” Aziraphale continues, ignorant to Crowley’s quick sketching. “I want you to know that I will love you no matter what or who you are, my sweet son.”

Samuel gives some sort of hiccup and gurgle. Aziraphale chuckles, delighted, and carefully wraps the blankets around him snugly.

“Would you like to come and sit with me, my boy? We can watch your Omba,” he continues, settling back into his seat.

He carefully parts his nightshirt and tucks the child skin-to-skin against his chest. Samuel tries to lift his head, but it is a wobbly move. Aziraphale hurries to cup his nape and steady him.

“No need to rush ahead, my lad,” he chastises. “Take your time.”

“He’s trying to look around, isn’t he?” Crowley asks, amazed.

His pencil is poised above the paper, frozen.

“I didn’t think infants this young did that,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Only stubborn ones.”

“Or curious ones. He’s bound to push the limits of society—just like you have, my dear,” Aziraphale says, delighted. “He cannot see very far yet, I believe?”

“About a foot or so away. He can see your face,” Crowley agrees, smiling.

Aziraphale tucks his head down to his chest so he can study the baby there. “Hello then.”

Samuel whistles through his nose and gurgles before mouthing wetly onto his Papa’s chest.

“He might need another feed, my dear.”

“What? He just ate,” Crowley grumbles, setting down his art supplies and holding out his arms for the child. “If this portends how you’ll eat as a teenager, we ought to just rename you ‘locust’ now.”

Aziraphale makes a thoughtful noise, “That is rather ‘plagues of Egypt’, don’t you think, my dear? Perhaps we ought to give him more of a wizard’s name—as he ‘makes food disappear’!”

Crowley sulkily places Samuel at his sore breast, “Make you disappear,” he mutters.

“Now, there’s no need for such nonsense,” Aziraphale replies with a disappointed note to his voice.

Crowley sighs and reclines in the chair. “So to recap: he might be an Alpha, he definitely needs publicly scented, and he’s certainly is in danger if we leave Zionview Grove.”

Aziraphale’s voice drops into an Alpha register, “You mean our nest.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, “Who are concerned about in the household?”

“Uriel has certainly proved that she cannot be trusted with him alone, for one.”

“But others? Surely you trust the Dowager?” Crowley asks, surprised.

“My mother? Yes, I suppose I do. But she could be manipulated—remember how pliant she was the night that Gabriel was killed?” Aziraphale says, adjusting his nightshirt.

“She had just lost a son, a son-in-law, and her daughter, angel. She was allowed to be a bit off balance.”

“Yet, she has to be medicated and put to bed. Anyone could have convinced her of something in those moments,” Aziraphale continues, pulling at his cuffs.

Samuel is absently sucking but is clearly falling asleep on Crowley’s teat. Even as he frowns down at the child, he can feel his expression softening. The baby gives a milky sigh.

“And my father?” Crowley asks. “He delivered our child.”

Aziraphale studies his hands, then looks up to meet Crowley’s gaze. “I am hesitant to say ‘yes’ without caveats.”

Crowley nods slowly. “He’s not been truthful from the start.”

“And the way he came here under the Lucifer’s plan. I am sure he is more honest with us now, but, forgive me, Crowley, my love, I’m hesitant.”

Crowley pulls Samuel away from his nipple. He’s dead to the world and drooling milk. It shouldn’t be adorable, but it is. Crowley wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his dressing-gown, then settles him on his sternum, skin-to-skin.

“You were the one who thought me too suspicious,” he finally says.

Aziraphale stands and offers his hand to Crowley. He helps his mate stand. Crowley leans on him for no other reason than he can. Aziraphale seems keen to aid him.

“I did, I confess. Now I see that I should have deferred to your greater knowledge of the Jayanthony schemes and tricks. You have been suspicious of everyone connected to your family since you arrived here. You’ve usually been right.”

He guides Crowley to their nest and helps him settle in the bed in just his small clothes. He tucks the blankets around him and Samuel. Then he shucks his dressing gown and climbs onto the other side of the mattress. Crowley allows his Alpha to rearrange him however he likes. He enjoys feeling Aziraphale’s powerful arms maneuver him. Samuel sleeps through it all, ignorant of how capable and strong his Papa is.

“Then what do we do? Hide in our den until the baby is able to walk?”

Aziraphale takes a long time to answer. When he does, he’s uncharacteristically timid.

“My darling, I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Crowley lays against his Alpha and listens to their joined breathing. Slowly, Aziraphale’s evens out and he sleeps. Crowley is slow to follow, and, just as sleep claims him, Samuel fusses.

He continues through most of the night. His eyes are wide and alert. Anytime he’s set down or held in a stationary position for too long, he screams. It rattles Crowley to his very core. So he spends the wee hours of the morning walking up and down the room shushing him. Aziraphale snores, ignorant to the disturbance, throughout it all. Crowley could be irritated. He could wake him mate and make him take a turn, but Crowley finds the otherwise silent room helpful for his thoughts.

Something has to give and his mind turns over all the options at his disposal. To begin with, there’s the annuity of a substantial sum. If given in its entirety to his mother and siblings, it would, no doubt, be gone in a few years. Would they accept that income source was dried up when they’d wasted its coffer? No, he thinks, more likely they’d come demanding money from the Herald’s estate.

And, honestly, Crowley is not inclined to give them any of his dowery now that he knows he has one. He would like to set money aside for his son, but, even before that, to give some to his mate. The concept of being able to provide for once, instead of being a burden, is exciting. And, secretly, he’d like to buy every frivolous thing he’d ever wanted. There was that covetous thing in his chest that Aziraphale had encouraged on their first shopping trip. Anything that Crowley even thought he might like to see up closer was purchased. The memory makes him smile.

Yes, using his pin money for silly personal items would be fun. The concept of shopping sends his mind swirling. And, internally, he makes a list of all the items he’d like to buy for Aziraphale. His kind and generous husband who would gladly give his happiness and very life to keep his family safe. He deserves fancy chocolates and books and new cravat pins and hats or all of it at once. Crowley’s never even given him a gift. It’s heartbreaking really, to be so limited by others. It’s so freeing, in turn, to be released by this promised money.

Of course, that all hinges upon Anthony telling the truth about the annuity. There may not be any at all. Or perhaps there is and Anthony’s here to reclaim a portion of it. Crowley pats Samuel’s padded bottom and the infant hiccups then gives a pitiful cry. Crowley kisses his head and begins another circuit of the room.

This brings him back to the schemers of Tophet. What would his mother be willing to do for those funds? Clearly, Lucifer and Hastur would have killed someone—likely him. Crowley finds that he’s unsurprised. They’ve never valued him. He’s a deadweight to them. In this instance, he is a means to an end.

Yet, there must be some reason he’s alive then! The Dowager pointed out that if the money was accessible following his and Ash’s deaths then he would probably already be gone. He bounces Samuel and the babe grunts then cries again.

“It won’t matter,” he says aloud and Samuel quiets to listen. “No matter if I gave her the money, they’d just want more. No amount would ever be enough.”

The baby gives another hiccupy grunt then opens his mouth wide in a huge yawn.

“You think _you’re_ tired of this topic? Just imagine me. I’ve been dealing with them and their plots my entire life. And my life is considerably longer than yours,” he answers, rocking them from side to side.

His dressing-gown swishes across his feet. He lets his eyes close. He is impossibly tired, but Samuel is just now beginning to consider rest. He yawns again, a huge gesture for so small a person.

Of course, Samuel will always be a pawn if his family can get to him. The threats against their children—present and future—were made for shock value, he’s sure.

“Showed my hand though, didn’t I?” he asks, resting his cheek against the baby’s head. “They’re poor gamblers, that much is apparent, but I’m still worse yet.”

His mother knows his weak spots: Aziraphale and their pups. It would also include his sister if she were still alive. He wonders if the Dame will try to force Blanc into that role so she has another player in the match. Who else could she use to manipulate him?

Samuel sighs, sleepily. Crowley thinks back to ten plus years ago when he walked Adam up and down in a similar manner. The very memory slams into him and makes him breathless.

“You have a cousin. He’s a right pain in the arse,” Crowley’s voice wobbles. “I helped with him, as best I could, when he was your size and a bit bigger. You’d like him, I think. He’s always covered in dirt and getting into mischief. If the Dame could use him against me, she would.”

Samuel smacks his lips and rubs his nose on Crowley’s clavicle. Thinking of Adam hurts, so he turns his full attention back to the baby in his arms.

“I’m thinking too loud, huh? Keeping you awake,” he kisses his son’s downy head. “I’ll quiet down then. You just go to sleep.”

He takes slow steps back to the nest and climbs back into its warm darkness. Carefully, he slips out of his dressing-gown. Aziraphale rolls toward him as he lies down.

“All right?” he mumbles, still half asleep.

“Mmm, Sam and I were just trying to sort out all this mess,” he agrees.

With sleep-heavy limbs, Aziraphale paws at Crowley until he’s lying against his Alpha’s side. The infant is pillowed on his chest. Aziraphale wraps around them and snuffles. He’s still not completely awake as he pulls at the duvet and then, still nearly uncoordinated, rubs scent oil across Crowley’s stomach.

“Sleep. It’ll be fine in the morning,” he rumbles, with another pass of his wrist across Crowley’s ribs.

Crowley guides his hand so that the same scent marks Samuel’s back. The problems will still be there, just as large the following day, but it’s comforting to think that just smearing oil onto each of them helps. If nothing else, Crowley knows he’s wanted. He applies his own scent to the infant’s back then all along Aziraphale’s exposed throat. He grunts, nearly a growl, before sighing in his sleep.

Crowley tucks blankets safely around his son and nuzzles into Aziraphale’s chest. The smell of pear mingled with cedar now meets baby powder. It’s enough to make his mind quiet. He lets his heavy eyes fall shut.

Samuel is awake and screaming less than an hour later. Crowley, bleary-eyed, changes him, feeds him, and tucks him safely against his chest once more. Wind roars outside the windows and rain lashes the side of the estate. The temperature in the room has dropped and Crowley shivers as he strides up and down the room.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls, sleepily.

Samuel wails like he’s being skinned alive.

“It’s all right, angel. Go back to sleep.”

The curtains around their bed twitch, then slide open. Aziraphale’s barefoot slides out from behind their velvet bed drapes.

“Oh, my, it’s cold in here!” he complains.

His foot disappears back behind the curtains. A few moments later, he appears wearing his dressing gown and house shoes.

“My dear, you’re barely dressed. You must be freezing,” he comments.

Samuel takes this opportunity to take a deep breath and then scream at a louder volume. Crowley bounces him and shushes him, but it just makes the baby more red-faced.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says before unlatching the door between the two bedrooms and disappearing into the dressing room.

Crowley closes his eyes. It’s usual for the Alpha to take a disinterest in pups, he’s fairly sure. Even so, he’d hoped that Aziraphale would be different. Tears pool in his eyes.

“We’re just tired,” he says to Samuel as if this will help him control his emotions. “And hormonal. No need to fret.”

He bounces and rocks, trying to comfort the child. Even so, he’s cold and Samuel is screaming incessantly. He is so very tired. His body hurts. He rocks and pats and bounces and walks and comforts and whispers and shushes.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry. Omba’s going to sing you a lullaby,” he tries, but his voice cracks, and the tears fall.

No doubt Aziraphale is tucked warmly into the bed in the dressing room, trying to ignore the screaming child. Crowley can’t be angry. This is his place in life as an Omega, it’s what he was meant to do. But he’s so very tired. The wind howls and the rain beats on the glass. Samuel shrieks and then howls at a terrific volume. Crowley sobs quietly and rocks the infant.

Then the door to the dressing room squeaks open and Aziraphale rejoins them with his arms loaded with firewood. He’s wearing his nightcap and its little tassel swings over his shoulder.

“I couldn’t find any of your thicker nightshirts that would open enough to feed him, so I’ve just brought you one of mine. I hope you don’t mind, my dear boy. I’ve found some stockings that should fit you. I wanted them to be wool so you’d—my dear? Are you all right?” Aziraphale interrupts himself and hurries to Crowley’s side.

“Are you hurt, my love?” he worries.

He sets the firewood by the fire and drops the clothes into the armchair. Without pause, he takes Samuel from him Crowley and sets him into the Moses basket. The infant screams louder and Crowley tries to go to him. Aziraphale stops him.

“Crowley, what is wrong?” he demands, cupping his arms in his hands.

Crowley sniffles and wipes his eyes. “‘M just tired and he won’t stop crying.”

Aziraphale stares at him for a long moment, then hustles him closer to the fire.

“Come along then, let’s get you into some clothes. Your dressing gown isn’t enough for a cold night like tonight.”

He helps him slide out of the arms of his dressing gown and into Aziraphale’s larger nightshirt. Then, without pause, he tucks Crowley’s sleep cap over his head and tucks his plait into it. Then he helps his mate sit and slides blue wool stockings onto his feet.

“Your toes are like ice! You should have taken my house shoes—no, you should have woken me.”

“Just wanted to settle him,” Crowley mumbles through his tears.

“No matter, my dear. Back into bed now,” Aziraphale says, bundling him off.

“But Samuel…”

“Will enjoy some time walking with Papa, won’t you, my lad?” Aziraphale asks, lifting the angry infant from his cot. “I brought you some clean supplies in case you need a change and some booties! The Dowager made them! Won’t they be nice on your little toes?”

Crowley stares, gaping as tears roll over his cheeks. Without conscious thought, he is crying for another reason. Aziraphale is a wonderful parent. He sets the baby on the bed and unwraps his blankets. Samuel shivers in the cold air.

“Yes, little one, I know. But we need to get you into this clean gown. You’ll be so much warmer. Are you wet? Oh, you are! Did Omba feed you so well? Of course, he did. He knows how to help you grow. We’ll just change you then!”

“I just changed him,” Crowley says, flustered.

“And you did a wonderful job—“

“Don’t patronize me,” he sniffs. “I didn’t think to check him again.”

“Crowley, get into bed please before you freeze.”

Defiant, he wraps his arms around himself and shivers. Aziraphale slides clean linen around the baby’s bum and then pins it into place. The plicher slides into place, followed by knit booties, a neat cap, and an embroidered gown.

“There we are!” Aziraphale declares, adjusting the baby’s cap.

Samuel cries, wearily as Aziraphale wraps him in the blankets and lifts him up.

“You’ve worn yourself out, haven’t you?” Aziraphale comments then gives Crowley a steady look. “You must be taking stubborn lessons from Omba. Who, might I add, would be much warmer in the nest.”

Crowley wipes his face then climbs in. He watches Aziraphale offer Samuel a silver rattle with a piece of coral on one end. The coral goes into his tiny mouth and he sucks it. He grumbles behind the dummy but seems content to suck. Aziraphale walks carefully toward the window, chattering quietly.

“It is a good storm, my lad. We’ll get some snow before the year is out, but not just yet. The cold is just beginning, I’m afraid, but spring will be here as you’re learning to walk, and won’t that be lovely?”

Samuel gives a few muted cries, but nothing compared to his screaming. Aziraphale continues some prattle as he wanders to Crowley’s bedside and directs the baby’s gaze.

“Shall we help Omba get ready for some sleep? He’s so determined to be a good father to you that he’s worn himself out. We should reward him,” Aziraphale whispers, kissing the baby’s head.

Samuel’s eyes blink sleepily and Crowley battles with a mixture of jealousy and irritation. He tried everything that Aziraphale did. What was the difference?

Ignoring his mate’s teary scowl, Aziraphale pushes Crowley back onto the mattress and pulls the eiderdown up to his chin. Then he leans over and kisses Crowley’s forehead.

“Go to _sleep_ , Omega. I’ll get him settled.”

Then he shuts the bed curtains and walks around to his side of the bed. Aziraphale climbs in and pulls the curtains closed behind him as well. He wiggles down into the bed and lays Samuel on the mattress between them.

“Wait for Papa, please,” he says, kicking off his house shoes and sliding out of his dressing gown.

Once down to his nightshirt, he slips under the duvet and brings the baby with him.

“Now then, we’ll get some sleep,” he says as if the decision is made.

Samuel is already drifting off and Crowley lets go of his irritation in the blessed silence. Relieved, his eyes fall shut. Aziraphale reaches over and adjusts the duvet on Crowley again.

“Thank you, angel.”

“Go to sleep, my love.”

So he does.

Samuel sleeps longer than he expects, but the infant is screaming again in the early, grey dawn. Crowley slips from the bed and yelps as his feet touch the cold floor.

“I will change him,” Aziraphale says with a yawn.

“You can deal with the fire,” Crowley replies, unlocking the door to the other room.

He hurries with Samuel to change him and discard the dirty nappy. It was particularly foul and he privately apologizes to whichever housemaid has laundry duty. The fire in the room has burned down to embers. Samuel shivers when exposed to the cold air. He makes his displeasure known at an extreme volume.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Crowley grumbles, hurrying to redressed him. “Let’s go see Papa by the fire.”

Aziraphale has stoked the flames until they’re roaring warm. Crowley brings Samuel closer to the heat and rocks him there.

With a tired smile, Aziraphale pats him on the shoulder, “It’s still warmer in our nest.”

He chases them both into the bed, then returns back into the room to latch and lock doors, then use the chamber pot. He tumbles into bed after that with a dramatic shiver. He pulls Crowley, who is nursing, to him and wraps the three of them in the duvet.

“It is unexpectedly cool for this time of year!” he mutters. “Hopefully this isn’t a sign for how the rest of the winter will be.”

Crowley yawns and tucks his face into Aziraphale’s neck. “I hate the cold,” he grumbles.

“I’ll keep you warm,” Aziraphale rumbles and Crowley snorts at his terrible line.

A pleased purr slips quietly out of him. The baby suckles and Crowley dozes. Aziraphale must burp Samuel, then tucks them all back into the bed, but Crowley remembers none of it. When someone knocks on the door, it startles them all awake.

“Crowley? Lord Fellthrop?” Anthony calls through the door that locks between their den and their dressing room.

Aziraphale frowns, collects his dressing-gown, and gestures for Crowley to stay where he is. He goes to see his father-in-law. Crowley listens as the door squeaks open.

“Omega Lord Burningstone, whatever is the matter?” Aziraphale asks.

“A woman—a nanny—has just arrived for your son. She says she was hired by post,” Anthony says, worriedly.

“I am sure this is simply a mix-up,” Aziraphale says, cheerfully. “No doubt she was hired by Gabriel for his son. We will apologize for the mistake and pay her fare back to wherever the service dispatched her.”

“No, you misunderstand,” Anthony worries. “She was hired just this week by letter.”

Crowley feels the claw of anxiety in his throat.

“Who made this request on our behalf?” Aziraphale asks as if he has a suspicion all ready.

“My wife, Lady Burningstone,” Anthony says.

Crowley throws open the curtains at the foot of the bed. He’s furious. “What would she accomplish with this newest scheme? More curiously, with what funds has she secured this nurse?”

Anthony looks past Aziraphale. “I have no answers. I have decided to gain some. With your permission, Lord Fellthrop, I would like to borrow a carriage. I thought the nurse might be better used at Tophet for Lady Blanc. I could reassign her and get some answers.”

Aziraphale’s posture changes, minutely. “Allow me to ring down and dress. I will accompany you.”

Crowley can only grunt out a disbelieving, “Ngk?”

Anthony seems relieved though. “I would appreciate that, Fellthrop. I have not seen my mate in many years and, I must confess, I’m nervous.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale smiles. “Shall we meet in, say, two hours?”

Anthony looks past him to his son. “With a new baby? Best make it three.”

“Wait—“ Crowley starts to argue, but Aziraphale closes and locks the door once more.

“Would you like a moment to prepare your argument or are you ready now?” Aziraphale asks primly before joining Crowley in the nest.

“My argument? Are you seriously trying to tease me about this? You cannot go with him to Tophet!”

“Pray tell, why not, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, pulling him back to the pillows.

“It’s Tophet! There are at least three Alphas there and they’re determined to get this money! They could kill you! Hell, two of them have already tried. No, angel, you cannot go,” Crowley orders, frantically.

“And if I do not go, then they will have your father alone with them. That’s another way to get at us.”

“No, Aziraphale, seriously, _no_. What if he’s not a friend? What if Anthony is lying? He already has, we can’t trust him,” Crowley argues.

Aziraphale takes the baby from his mate and swaddles him tightly. He sets Samuel in the Moses basket, then moves it to its hanging base. Once secured, he gives the cot a little push so it rocks calmly. As it sways, he pulls Crowley to him and tucks them together under the blankets.

“We cannot trust him, I agree,” Aziraphale says, kissing his Omega mark, “but I can go with suspicion and learn what they’d hoped to accomplish with this. And, if he’s trustworthy, then I will see it with my own eyes.”

“And if he hurts you? Or he doesn’t stop them from hurting you? What if he’s after the money too?”

“Then he will not support his case by allowing them to harm me.”

Crowley’s muscles are tense. This is not a good idea. “Please, Aziraphale, stay here. You said that we’re safer in the den, so let’s _stay_ in the nest. You can keep us all safe. We’ll just stay here, the three of us.”

Aziraphale kisses his temple again and holds him tighter. “You two will stay here, locked in, until I return. I promise this is for the best.”

Crowley frowns. “I don’t like this.”

“I respect that,” Aziraphale answers.

“But not enough to listen to me,” Crowley snaps.

Aziraphale kisses his forehead again but does not answer. He sets his shoulders into a familiar posture: I’ve heard what you’ve said, but I am going to do what I want and you can kindly fuck off. Crowley usually loves this bastard side of him, but right then, it just makes him want to scream.

Aziraphale is going and Crowley can argue. This isn’t a fight that Crowley can win. Writing the War Department was less serious than this to his Alpha. This is a battle for his family. He will be on the frontline, no matter what Crowley says.

In a few hours, as Crowley suspected, Aziraphale is dressed to go. Samuel is sleeping in his cot and Aziraphale kisses the infant’s forehead.

“Be good for Omba,” he tells Samuel.

Then he pulls Crowley into his arms and kisses him long and slow.

“Please stay, angel. Seriously, I’m begging here. Stay, Alpha,” Crowley says, pleadingly.

Aziraphale kisses him again, “I’ll be back soon. Stay in the den, please.”

He gives a tight squeeze to the nape of his Omega’s neck, then steps out the door. Crowley locks the door after him. He wants to rage and throw things, but Samuel is actually sleeping. Instead, he sits on the floor and listens for the carriage to roll away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- Thank you all for your kind comments and fun discussions. You've helped so much with plot points.  
> \- Bottles at this time were very dangerous as they were hard to clean. Milk also was nasty and full of junk. Best not to ask where it came from.  
> \- Can you imagine arguing with someone and them being able to make your brain seize up because of your secondary gender? That would be insanely frustrating.  
> \- Breast pumps at this time were giant suction syringe-looking devices. They worked but also bruised badly.  
> \- Bathing in tubs was a very French thing and, as English was at war with the French, nothing from that nation was positive. Ladies wore these dresses to bathe in. It's very strange looking.  
> \- Samuel is based on my niece. She had the sassiest eyebrows at under one month old. She would scream like a banshee at night or when she was cold. She's nearly two now and still sassy.  
> \- Stillborns were not recorded anywhere by the family bible or, sometimes, in a published family history book. Children were not usually christened until they were a week or so old, as many of them succumbed to illness early on. In this world, christening includes a presentation of the child by the Omega parent and public "scenting" by the Alpha parent.  
> \- Beelzebub is the sixth Beelzebub Jayanthony, named for her mother, and on up the family line.  
> \- Baby pacifiers/dummies were usually made of coral because of a Greek myth. No lie. Rich families had the piece set in silver rattles for the baby to teeth on. Poorer families used corncobs or cloth tied around sugar cubes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY! I hope you're well and staying safe. Wash those hands. Wear that mask. Stay home (if you can). You rock hard, friend. Keep being you.

Aziraphale orders their simple family carriage and Glozier sits high on the bench behind the horses. Aziraphale does not look back. Crowley is in their den and the windows face away from the front of the house. Efficiently, he waits until the nursemaid and his father-in-law are settled, the door is shut, and then he taps on the roof. They’re off. Anthony sits beside him, at a respectful distance. As they bounce along the nursemaid tries to make conversation.

“Zionview Grove has lovely gardens,” she attempts first.

Both men offer some small replies, but the conversation tries quickly.

When that fails, she tries, “The weather is unseasonably cool. The wind, I find, is much colder than the air.”

Again, the conversation stalls.

And, finally, “Lord Fellthrop, you should know, I am very experienced working with paralysis.”

This is the first conversation bait that he bites at.

“That is very, umm, commendable, my girl.”

“Yes, well, it’s just that I was sought after as a nursemaid for my experiences and qualifications with such.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow at her, “Why would such a match be needed?”

“Well, I mean, forgive me for being so blunt, but for Omega Lord Fellthrop. He’s… umm… well, paralyzed?”

Anthony snarls, surprising the other two carriage occupants, “My son is perfectly healthy, thank you.”

“Indeed. My mate can walk, ride, dance, among other things. What led you to make this assumption?” Aziraphale asks, already anticipating the answer.

“Well, the hiring letter, of course. It specified that he was unable to walk or see,” the nursemaid says carefully.

“Neither of those things is true,” Aziraphale says, assuredly. “My husband is very capable of taking care of our child.”

“Why would she write those things?” Anthony theorizes, his brow furrowed. “You think this is another of her plots, I know, but to what end?”

Aziraphale sighs. He does not want to have this conversation in front of a stranger—a stranger in service at that. His options are limited at the moment.

“Lady Burningstone has made her position very clear: Crowley and any children we conceive or adopt are pawns. She feels that the very threat of removing them will force my hand,” he explains.

Anthony rubs his mouth and shakes his head. “Forgive me, Fellthrop, but I do not see the connection between that and this misunderstanding with my son’s health.”

“Perhaps if she can convince others that Crowley is unable to walk or see, they will also believe he is thus unable to care for Samuel. She might be replaced as his guardian. No doubt a fee to visit him would be implemented,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting.

The nursemaid is staring at him, her mouth agape. He frowns at her and snaps primly, “You are not a codfish. Close your mouth, it’s unladylike.”

She flushes and hurries to comply.

Aziraphale continues addressing her, “No doubt she will offer to compensate you for whatever information you could glean from your time in our home. She may ask you about my child.”

“I haven’t seen your baby!” the girl argues, loudly.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at her, judging. “Just so.”

The nursemaid finds her reticule and worries the fabric laces with her gloved hands. Aziraphale appraises her.

“You’re a smart girl. If you take her bribe then I will ensure that no agency will list you as a hire. Your services will be ‘no longer needed’ in any location. No businesses will take your credit. My dear, it would behoove you to stick to your duties at Tophet and forget ever knowing of Zionview Grove,” he says with a silky growl.

It’s threatening but elegant. The girl’s eyes are wide and frightened. Aziraphale sits back in his seat and pulls the curtain away from the window. He looks out at the passing countryside, certain that his point has been made. A sideways glance at his father-in-law confirms it: his threat has been heard.

Anthony smiles tightly at the nursemaid, then he too looks out a window. The rest of the half-hour ride is done in silence. This is broken as they take a smaller lane and Anthony begins to look more animated.

“We’re near Tophet now,” he says, trying to remain calm. “I haven’t been home in nearly twenty years. Look how it’s changed!”

“It does strike me as strange,” Aziraphale muses to Anthony, “that such is true. Surely Lady Burningstone could not keep you away? You have a claim to the household.”

Anthony sighs and sags against the wall for a moment, before forcing himself to sit upright again. “Perhaps, but her threats have always kept me at bay. We shall see today, I suppose.”

The carriage slows and rolls up to a handsome brick home. Aziraphale waits for Glozier to open the door, but when he does, he’s surprised at the number of windows. Somehow, with all the Dame’s money woes, he’d expected many of them to be bricked up to avoid the window tax. Once they’ve all exited the carriage, the nursemaid looks around curiously.

“It’s certainly not as large of a home,” she observes.

“More children to care for, however,” Aziraphale comments. “Lady Blanc, Lady Mary, and Omega Lord Ligur are expecting in the next months. You’ll have your hands full.”

The door opens and the manservant who drove the cart of goods to Zionview Grove appears.

“Lord Fellthrop, welcome to Tophet. Hello Lord Crow—“ Arthur must mistake Anthony for his son, but he stops himself.

Arthur’s eyes widen comedically. “Omega Lord Burningstone?”

“Hello, Young. I hope you have been well,” Anthony says, warmly.

He extends his hand to Arthur and they shake. Anthony seems pleased to see an old friend, but the manservant looks as though he’s seen a ghost. In some way, Aziraphale thinks, he has.

“Why are you here?” Hastur snarls from the doorway. “Wait? _Omba_? What are you doing here?”

Anthony steps away from Arthur and faces his son. Hastur is on the front step, half inside the hall and half outside.

“I’ve come to deliver the nursemaid your mother ordered. A mixup happened at the agency and they sent her to Zionview Grove instead of here. We thought we’d accompany her. I wanted to see all of you, if possible.”

“Omba?” another voice asks.

Aziraphale looks up to see Lucifer. He’s expecting the man from his family chapel. That man was a thing of nightmares. He held a gun and swaggered with confidence and menace. He’d ruined a happy occasion.

This man is not the same. Lucifer’s coloring is swallow. He is frail with oily hair and skin. He appears to have lost more than just his hand. He is now three stones less than before. Lucifer’s tailcoat hangs from his body. The cravat tied about his neck is much tighter than it's been worn before. The stump where his hand once was is bandaged in layers of white linen. His arm hangs in a sling across his chest.

“Hello, son,” Anthony greets. “You look… poorly.”

“Yes, well, thank you, Omba, for stating the obvious,” Lucifer snarls, but it’s a weak comparison to Aziraphale’s wedding.

Another person comes to the door and steps out, “Hello, Anthony!” Blanc calls, happily. “And Aziraphale! Welcome! Shall I call for tea?”

“Samael?” Lady Burningstone clarifies, curiously.

She steps out into the cool air and her face contorts from confusion to disbelief and then into hope. If she were anyone else, it would break Aziraphale’s heart.

Anthony blinks slowly, “Bee. Hello. I’m sorry for dropping in like this, I just… I wanted to see the children.”

“Yes,” she says carefully, stepping down to the gravel where they stand.

Her eyes are eager. She looks her husband up and down, quickly, as if she’s afraid to look away from his face for too long. She walks, almost dreamlike, to a meter before him where she stops.

“You came to see… the children?” she asks, parroting his words.

“I don’t often see them all together,” Anthony admits, looking at her with thinly veiled longing. “A nanny was accidentally sent to Crowley instead of the Omegas here. We brought her along. Where she belongs.”

Lady Burningstone nods slowly, then, as if she’s awakening from a deep sleep, blinks quickly. “What? No. She was meant to go to Zionview Grove. My son just adopted a child. He’ll need help.”

“Bee,” Anthony reprimands, softly, “ _our_ son is a capable parent, I assure you. He’s doing very well with his child.”

Aziraphale almost interrupts. He’s worried that Anthony will accidentally give away some detail that his wife can use against them. Anthony, on the other hand, seems to be aware of his words.

“Why would you do that, Bee?” Anthony asks with a tight frown. “Why are you doing any of this? You’ve punished me—fine, I can take it. But leave the kids out of it.”

Lady Burningstone rears back as if slapped. “ _I’ve_ punished _you_? You left! You left and you never came home!”

“I—ngk, what? I did not leave! You sent me away!”

“I did no such thing!” Lady Burningstone stamps her foot.

“You slept with my _brother_! And then sent me away to die in war!” Anthony yells, throwing his hands up over his head.

Lady Burningstone looks away then and crosses her arms. Ligur has joined the others on the steps and Arthur guides the nursemaid into the house using the staff entrance. He looks over his shoulder several times as he does, clearly interested in the gossip. Aziraphale shifts uneasily. Glozier catches his eye, then averts his gaze, pretending to be part of the carriage. 

“You slept with Raphael during my _heat_ , Bee. Do you have any idea how much that hurt me? You have any idea how many ways it did?—it was levels of pain!”

“It was a mistake,” Lady Burningstone says quietly. “I knew it as it was happening. I thought, after years of wishing you were him, that it would end that desire in me. Then… the entire time, I wished it were you with me.”

Anthony growls and throws up his hands again, “How is that supposed to make me feel? Am I supposed to come crawling home? It’s, what, nearly thirty years too late?”

“You could.”

Anthony runs his hands through his greying red hair. “I could what, Bee? What?”

“You could come home,” Lady Burningstone says slowly. “You could come home, Anthony.”

Aziraphale isn’t sure what to do. Part of him, the romantic notions that combine his sensibilities with his Alpha nature, says this is best. The other part, which is all logic and Alpha protection of his den and pack, growls in a warning. His options are very limited though, if he tries to step in now he could be seen as a threat. Crowley was right. There are three Alphas here. He’s outnumbered. Worriedly, Aziraphale retreats slowly to the carriage entrance.

“It doesn’t work like this, Bee,” Anthony yells. “You don’t toss me away, then spend years sending me dismissive notes or ignoring me in turn, then, on a whim, beg me to come back. It doesn’t work like that! And what is all this for? Some money?”

Lady Burningstone rubs her eyebrow with her fingers. “The money is troublesome, yes. I may have gotten in over my head.”

“And are now trying increasingly dangerous and illegal ways to gain it? C’mon, Bee, that’s ridiculous. You let Lucifer _beat_ our youngest? And threaten him? You let Hastur hold a gun on a pregnant Omega? That’s not ‘troublesome’. That’s a crime!”

“Oh, because you have such clean hands, Samael!” Lady Burningstone retorts. “Living under another man’s name and reaping the benefits of his career? When you yourself have done nothing with your life?”

“Ah, so raising five Alpha children isn’t something?”

Lady Burningstone snarls, “Is it really ‘raising’ when you run out on them while many of them are still dressing in dresses? Usher was barely weaned! Hastur wasn’t breeched yet!”

“Lady Burningstone, this is very unbecoming,” Ligur tries to suggest only to be hissed at by the other three.

Aziraphale nearly rolls his eyes. Of course, they’re enjoying the show! The Jayanthony’s do enjoy melodrama.

“I don’t understand any of this, Bee. You never wanted me as a mate, yet now—“

“Now I see that the grass is greener, as they say,” Lady Burningstone says and yanks the laces of her scent cuff free.

She waves her wrist in the air and Aziraphale smells mint on the wind. Anthony’s eyelashes flutter. He takes a drunken step backward.

“Is this about money, even now, _Alpha_?” Anthony asks, his voice strained.

“They’ll take Tophet,” Lady Burningstone clarifies, softly. “But right now, no. This is about me. I miss my mate, my Omega. I miss _you_ , Tony.”

Aziraphale sees the way his father-in-law staggers under the overwhelming scent of his mate. After years deprived of it, it must be potent. It seems to physically impact Anthony.

“Omega Lord Burningstone?” Aziraphale calls politely and Anthony lurches upright. “Is this what you want?”

Anthony retreats a step and admits, “I don’t know.” He addresses his wife with wide, wounded eyes, “I’ve never stopped loving you, but I don’t know this woman who lets her pups hurt one another.”

Lady Burningstone is rocked by these words. “What was I supposed to do? Let the estate be taken from us?”

“Did you gamble it _all_ away, Beelzebub?” he replies, quietly. “All the money from our tenants and the dowery money I gave you when we wed?”

Lady Burningstone stares at Anthony with an emotionless gaze. “And more.”

Anthony closes his eyes, disbelievingly. He licks his lips, clearly buying time before he speaks, but he tastes his mate’s scent on the air. He leans forward again, toward Lady Burningstone, as a man possessed. He hums a desperate purr and his Alpha surges forward. Lady Burningstone wraps her arms around his neck and hides her face in his chest. Anthony keens, nearly sobbing and clutches at the back of her dress.

“Come inside, Tony. Come home,” she begs tears in her voice. “Please. Please come home.”

“Is this what you want, Anthony?” Aziraphale calls again, awkwardly.

Anthony looks at his son-in-law over Lady Burningstone’s head. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Fellthrop.”

“Keep her away from my mate and my pup,” Aziraphale demands.

Lady Burningstone raises her head from Anthony’s chest to glare at him. “You will not threaten me in my home,” she growls.

“Funny,” Aziraphale sniffs, “how you believe that rule should apply for you, but not for me.” He opens the door to the carriage and swings up into it. “Take me home, Glozier.”

He slams the door and the carriage pulls away. Even so, he pushes the curtain aside and watches Lady Burningstone guide Anthony into Tophet with loving hands. The two other couples, their children, follow them inside.

Anxiety washes over him. Should he have forced Anthony to return to Zionview Grove with him? Did Anthony really want to stay with his mate? Was any of that real? Was it playacting to lull him into a false sense of security? Has Crowley’s suspicion shaped his worldview now too? He muses over these things as he rides along in the empty carriage.

It’s the first time he’s been completely alone since Samuel was born. He should probably be grateful, but instead, it’s intensely lonely. Irrationally, he wants to smell cedar.

Aziraphale searches across his collar and the cuffs of his shirt for Crowley’s scent. It is nowhere on him. A deep longing aches in him. Perhaps this is why mates stay in their dens with their new pups for several weeks. The separation is nearly traumatic.

If he feels this way, he worries, then Crowley with his hormonal changes may be worse off. Aziraphale thinks about everything his husband warned him about as he tried to dissuade Aziraphale from accompanying Anthony. Crowley is, at that moment, alone in their den with a newborn worrying that his father will turn on his mate.

Aziraphale had dismissed his concerns, but Crowley had worried that his own family would do as they always have: harm him. In this particular case, he expects Aziraphale to be hurt. Instead, his father might have just turned his back on his son.

Aziraphale is suddenly overwhelmed with the need to provide something for his mate. Tadfield rolls into view and he taps on the roof to the driver. Glozier slows them and pulls the horses to a neat stop beside the pavement. Aziraphale opens the door and steps down before the groom can assist him. He’s impatient to visit the street shops suddenly.

“Your Grace, have you been sick?” Glozier asks in a thick German accent from above him.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at his impertinence. Michael often got motion sickness in carriages, but not him. He is an officer of the calvary. 

“No, I’ve decided to stop in and see about collecting something for Omega Lord Fellthrop and our pup,” he answers, sharply.

The groom hears the reprimand in his voice and winces. “Of course, my lord. We’ll wait for you here.”

Virtuous Goods is quiet at this exact moment with only two additional customers in the shop. Aziraphale enters nods to Mr. Virtue, and begins to peruse the assortment of items. Mrs. Virtue’s skirts swish across the floor when she joins him.

“Good day, Lord Fellthrop! We have heard the good news—congratulations on this new arrival!” she then inquired after the health of their family.

Civility suggested that he only give the usual answer, but pride has changed him. “Our son has the strongest lungs,” he laughs, “and my husband dotes. He’s very tired, I fear.”

“New pups will certainly keep a parent from sleeping,” Mrs. Virtue replies, smilingly.

“I thought I might get something for each of them,” Aziraphale admits. “And I’d also like to replace Omega Lord Fellthrop’s parasol.”

“Replace?” Mrs. Virtue asks, surprised.

“Erm, yes, it was… misplaced during some of this past season’s repugnant occurrences,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster.

She looks away to hide her expression and directs him to the options. Aziraphale hums his displeasure. He cannot imagine the amount of gossip attributed to their names due to the actions of their two families. How frustrating. He’d known that claiming Crowley before their wedding would bring censure to them, but it seems far out shadowed by the recent occurrences.

Mrs. Virtue shows him a selection of pink parasols, but none that are exactly what Crowley lost. Aziraphale finally selects one with the same walking stick element and a gold ribbon.

“And you mentioned something for the babe?” Mrs. Virtue asks with a smile, clearly having forgotten the plan to purchase something else for Crowley.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees.

As the woman moves, the light catches the simple necklace at her throat. The pearl pendant hangs on a pink ribbon.

“Do you have something in mind for the little one?” Mrs. Virtue continues. “A christening cup?”

“My son had plenty of fineries. I was hoping for something more useful,” he says allowing his eye to follow the rows of items.

“Gowns? Blankets?” she suggests, lifting an example of each.

Just then, his eye falls upon a small basket of dolls. They have porcelain or wood heads and faces and are dressed in layers of neat fabric. Just beyond them though, is a soft wool doll.

“Might I see that?” he asks.

Mrs. Virtue blanches, “My lord, a rag doll is not the sort of toy that a little Earl needs.”

Aziraphale only raises an eyebrow at her and fidgets, “I believe I can judge that as I was once the little Earl and find that quite darling.”

Mrs. Virtue flushes and hands the doll to him. It’s a cloth doll of indiscriminate gender dressed in a similar gown to the one that Crowley embroidered a duck onto. It has a simple stitched face with a neutral, but pleasant expression.

“Yes, I believe Lord Samuel will enjoy this,” he says touching the dark hair on the doll.

Mrs. Virtue just nods quickly and takes it to wrap up along with the parasol. He settles the debt and takes his package. As he steps back onto the street, the Alpha looks down the line of shops. There are not many in Tadfield. Yet, there, across the street is the goldsmith and jeweler. After a quick glance about for traffic, he crosses and enters.

A bell dings cheerily when Aziraphale enters the shop. A shopkeeper jumps to his feet from the stool he lounges on. When he sees his customer, his eyes widen.

“Hello—eh, ahem, Hello, Lord Fellthrop!” he stutters nervously.

Aziraphale smiles, disarmingly at the man. “Good day. I was hoping you might have something for my husband to commemorate the birth of our first child.”

The man’s eyes widen, no doubt expecting the size of the sale. “Well, Your Grace, we are not a London shop, but we have some lovely chains and pendants.”

He moves to the wall and selects a box. He opens it and shows the contents to Aziraphale. He frowns.

“I was hoping for something more intricate. Omega Lord Fellthrop is a bright man. And our child is,” he stares at the wall, trying to find a word that encompasses all the hopes and joys that little screaming child has brought to him, “precious.”

“Yes, of course,” the shopkeeper stammers, replacing the box and retrieving another.

It too is replaced after Aziraphale’s dismissal. Anxious, the shopkeeper pulls three boxes in succession and places them before the Marquess. In the second box is a coral bead choker with a matching, smaller necklace for a child. The color is bright.

“These are lovely,” he notes.

“If my lord likes the coral, perhaps you might be interested to see a diadem?”

He returns two of the boxes and retrieves a smaller one. The gilded brass work on the tiara is a Grecian band that is followed by a row of filigree daisies and roses. Then it holds a row of pink and red coral beads, then, finally, thirteen, large, teardrop-shaped coral beads encased in brass frames.

“Yes, I dare say these three fit the bill,” Aziraphale declares, delighted. “They are lovely.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes widen comically. “All three… my lord? You’ll take them… all?”

Aziraphale smiles indulgently. “We are celebrating, after all. The tiara and choker for my mate and the little necklace,” he says touching it gently, “for my son.”

The shopkeeper hastens to close each box and wrap them in paper.

“I’ll have the invoice to you immediately, Your Grace,” he says with a low bow.

“I’ll see you have your payment as soon as I receive it then,” Aziraphale replies as he exits.

Pleased with his purchases, he waves to Glozier, who is hunched on himself in the cold wind. The groom seems delighted to be on his way again and Aziraphale feels a moment’s guilt for leaving the man in the weather.

“Let’s get to Zionview Grove and get you warmed up, Glozier,” he declares as he approaches the carriage.

“It is an icy, cold day,” the groom agrees. “I am grateful for Your Grace’s thought.”

“Home then,” Aziraphale agrees, as he steps up and snaps the door shut behind him.

The horses are away quickly and Aziraphale watches the tiny town of Tadfield roll by. He averts his eyes when he passes the Parsonage. It hurts too much to think of the death and disappointment that Michael has brought upon them. Then again, he revises, he is sure to see her soon as the Dame freed her but his sister did not greet him at Tophet.

These thoughts make him sick. Instead, he studies the sky as they turn up the drive and past the strange-headed angels that guard the entrance to the estate. Thick, grey clouds roll over the park. The wilderness is around him, but he sees no wildlife today. The sheep are on the lawn and their stupid expressions make him chuckle.

Just then, they break the tree line and the Alpha sees the grand house. Aziraphale studies the way the dark sky emphasizes the blonde stone. Zionview Grove stands stately at the rise of the hill before him. It’s a welcome sight and, for a moment, it takes his breath away. This has long been a home he was proud of, but it was never his to claim. From the time he was a child, he knew he was destined to live elsewhere.

It’s no longer true. He is now the guardian and steward of the estate as Lord Fellthrop. He feels a similar pride as to when Crowley asked him to scent his newborn son. Both Samuel and Zionview Grove are the future. They are also his to protect and guide. It is not a job he takes lightly.

They slow on the final approach and Aziraphale collects his purchases. He is glad to be back home. They stop and Johnson hurries out to open the carriage door.

“Welcome home, Lord Fellthrop,” Johnson greets, inclining his head respectfully, but his eyes are wild.

“Johnson, are you well?” Aziraphale asks, worriedly.

The footman’s eyes dart about, but he gives no answer. Shadwell darkens the door, looking equally worried and pale.

“Johnson, help Glozier with the horses—“

“No!” someone from inside the house barks.

Aziraphale looks directly at Shadwell and drops the volume of his voice, “Who is here?”

Shadwell blinks. “My lord?”

“Shadwell, who is in my house?” Aziraphale growls.

The color in Shadwell’s face fades further. He holds up his hand, doing a strange motion with his thumb up and his index extended like a gun. “I can’t—my lord, I won’t—Your Grace is needed in the house,” he stammers.

With a snarl, Aziraphale shoves his packages into the butler’s hands and darts into the house. If he was asked to describe the following sensation, Aziraphale might equate it to being in a tunnel. All outside information fell away into the darkness. All he could focus on was the light at the end: Crowley.

As he races into the saloon he comes face-to-face with nothing he wants to see. The sights come to him in flashes, like items on a list.

First, the door to the below-stairs has a large piece of furniture pushed against it, as does the door to the dining room. Someone hammers on each door, demanding to be granted entry.

Second, Uriel and her nurse are off to one side. They hold each other, fearfully.

Third, the Dowager has fainted on a sofa.

Fourth.

The fourth makes his mouth dry. It makes his heart pound. It makes him see red.

Fourth is a nightmare revisited.

Lucifer has Crowley on his knees in front of him like a shield. He holds the Omega’s long, plaited hair under his hand-less arm until it’s pulled tight. It makes Crowley hold his chin up so his throat is exposed to the sharp blade that his eldest brother presses against his skin. Crowley is only dressed in Aziraphale’s nightshirt and the large neckline, while helpful for feeding an infant, hangs off his shoulder. His eyes are wild and Aziraphale swears he can see his husband’s heart beating in his chest.

He holds Samuel lovingly in his arms. He’s wrapped in two blankets and he is screaming himself horse. It’s a normal infant scream that accompanies the general displeasures that newborns face. But, at that moment, it’s like a nightingale’s song. He’s unharmed.

The same cannot be said for his mate. It’s apparent that Crowley has put up a fight. His lip is split and blood coats his teeth. Aziraphale tries not to take in the swollen cut across his cheek or the heavy bruising on his mate’s knuckles.

He gave more than he got, it appears. Lucifer’s eye is purpling and his nose drips blood. He should have known better than to threaten an Omega with a pup. Yet, he got the better of Crowley somehow.

Aziraphale cannot imagine that scene as Lucifer must have dragged Crowley from their den somehow. Thinking about that brings images of Lucifer hurting Crowley. He has enough horror in front of him at the moment so Aziraphale refuses to chase that line of thinking. He looses the low, ferocious growl that wars in him. Samuel’s cry pauses for a moment when he hears it.

“Let go of him,” Aziraphale warns.

Lucifer doesn’t budge. He does glare at Samuel. “Would someone shut that thing up?”

Crowley’s answering growl is all snarl, “If you’d let go of me, I would.”

Crowley and he follow the traditions of establishing a pack. They have held Samuel for much of his short life, usually skin-to-skin. Additionally, the infant has rarely been out of their nest, let alone their den. This is a very confusing time for the baby.

There is movement behind him and Shadwell stands there, wretchedly.

“Shadwell, would you be so good as to take Lady Uriel, her maid, and the Dowager to Dowager House, please,” Aziraphale says, his voice still low and dangerous. “They will be much happier there, I think.”

“But Your Grace—“

“Shadwell, get them out of here,” he orders.

Uriel and her nurse rush to comply and feel the front door into the cold wind. Shadwell struggles to lift the Dowager, but, with a grunt he does. He carries her from the house.

Crowley shifts Samuel and hushes him, but the baby only takes a deep breath and screams louder. Lucifer glares at Aziraphale.

“Shut the door, it’s fucking cold out there,” he demands of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale does not move until he sees the knife press harder into Crowley’s neck. He pulls the door toward him, watching the carriage disappear down the drive.

“Lock it,” Lucifer orders.

Aziraphale pulls his loop of keys from his trousers and locates the appropriate one. He does not have many of the building keys as the housekeeper, but he does have this door and some others, besides their den. With a latch, the door is locked and he pockets the keys. Aziraphale studies the scene before him. Crowley is so still. Samuel cries again, this time coughing. Crowley bounces him.

“Let me feed him, Lucifer,” he suggests.

“Shut up,” Lucifer begins, his speech whistling through his broken nose, “I would like to return to the discussion of owed fees.”

“Go to hell,” Crowley growls and Lucifer yanks his braid.

The pull makes Crowley grimace in pain and the blade bites into his throat. The sight is too much. Aziraphale does not make a conscious decision to move. Somewhere, deep inside him is the instinct to protect his mate. It drives his very actions.Lucifer’s eyes widen as Aziraphale approaches.

“That’s close enough,” he growls and the knife cuts into Crowley’s neck.

Aziraphale smells fresh blood. Lucifer has sliced across Crowley’s throat, leaving a clean bead of red in its wake. Aziraphale rumbles in warning but stops.

“You need to let them go,” Aziraphale continues, over his growl.

“Then you need to get me what is mine.”

“And what is that? Some sorry pittance from a threat?” Crowley snarls, teeth bared.

Lucifer spits blood onto the rug, “I’ve come to get my portion of your marriage fee. If I have to get my hands dirty, so be it.”

Aziraphale growls, low and feral, “Then this is revenge?”

“Something like that. Originally, Mother had planned to blind and injury Crowley until he needed that nursemaid. Only, Michael wouldn't agree to do it. She refused to even set foot near here and has taken up orders to join the army. So here I am, trying to right this mess _again_. Take us to your checkbook, Fellthrop,” Lucifer says and Aziraphale walks forward.

When he gets too close to the screaming child and his mate, Lucifer forces the knife into Crowley’s skin again. The Omega winces but otherwise does not react. Aziraphale slows, but only for a moment. He heads for his study.

“C’mon little brother,” Lucifer says with false brightness, “Bring your banshee.”

Crowley struggles to stand and then stumbles when Lucifer keeps his awkward hold on his hair. They make their way into the study behind Aziraphale.

“Let him sit by the fire and feed the baby,” Aziraphale says.

Lucifer sniffs and pulls his knife away. His arm goes lax and Crowley is able to stand upright without his hair pulling.

“Fine, go on then,” Lucifer snaps.

Crowley hurries to Aziraphale’s side and tucks into his mate’s arms with a shiver. “Angel.”

“I know, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers, kissing Crowley’s forehead. “You’re freezing.”

He pulls off his tailcoat and slips it around Crowley’s shoulders. Then, as he is unwilling to release his husband, he uses his teeth to pull the laces on his scent cuff free. Quickly, he brushes his pear scent across Crowley’s face and Samuel’s forehead. Then he grabs his handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to Crowley’s bleeding throat. He ties it in place around Crowley’s neck, like a bandage.

“Enough of this,” Lucifer yells. “Get in the chair, Crowley.”

Crowley is slow to follow directions, but Aziraphale gives him a gentle push toward the fire. Once there, Crowley sinks into a chair and adjusts Aziraphale’s coat so it covers his chest and the infant. Aziraphale watches as Crowley rearranges Samuel and his nightshirt. The baby’s cries suddenly fade as he nurses.

“Thank Christ,” Lucifer whines. “Your bastard is loud.”

Aziraphale’s growl rolls out afresh, “You will not speak of my son that way.”

“Yet, he isn’t really your son, now is he?” Lucifer taunts.

He moves to Crowley’s side and the Omega turns, shielding Samuel away. Lucifer, like his father and his brother, is a tall and slight man. Where Anthony and Crowley are slim and lithe, Lucifer’s illness has left him looking emaciated. When combined with his loss of a hand, he should not be a threat.

Even so, Lucifer is a cornered, savage beast. He places the knife, blade tip down, against Crowley’s clavicle so that the blade is parallel to his throat. One press down and the knife will slice Crowley’s carotid artery. The Omega swallows and closes his eyes.

Aziraphale should have kept him in his arms. He was safer. He licks his lips and exhales a shivery breath.

“Go on then,” Lucifer continues, waving his stump of a hand, “find your quill pen!”

Aziraphale turns to his desk and surveys the items there. What he wouldn’t give for a bayonet at the moment. His desk holds no secret weapon. He finds a quill and his inkpot.

“I think we should start with £3,000 for the loss of my hand,” Lucifer suggests and Crowley snorts.

Aziraphale looks up in alarm, worried that the other Alpha will hurt his mate for this reaction. Instead, Lucifer takes this as an answer.

“You’re right, my hand was my shooting hand. Best up the ante. Write the cheque for £5,000, Fellthrop.”

Aziraphale straightens and addresses him. “I’ll need my checkbook.”

“Well?” Lucifer asks, loudly.

The volume makes Samuel stop his noisy nursing and grunt. Crowley shifts him and the baby makes his displeasure known with a cry. Crowley adjusts Aziraphale’s coat and props Samuel up onto his shoulder away from the knife. He pats his back. His eyes are locked on his Alpha. Samuel makes a few chirps of inquiry and Crowley shushes him. He expels one of his more impressive belches, which makes Lucifer look down in surprise.

“Better add another £200 just for suffering through that,” he sniffs, disgustedly.

Crowley is careful to move Samuel back under the coat and to accommodate the child nursing on the side with the knife. Lucifer grumbles and moves the knife to the other side of his brother’s neck. Aziraphale watches every movement fraught with unease.

He moves to Gabriel’s old desk and unlocks the bottom desk drawer, while still watching Crowley. Samuel is grunting and slurping in his usual way, which would be amusing any other time. Aziraphale opens the drawer and spies the cashbox.

It’s a heavy, cumbersome brass box. The checkbook is not inside it, but perhaps it will buy them some time. Aziraphale pulls the ring of keys from his pocket and makes a show of selecting the correct one. Then, intentionally, he drops the ring.

“Oh for Satan’s sake,” Lucifer snaps and abandons Crowley and the infant.

He hurries over and grabs the ring of keys. Crowley takes the opportunity to jump up and try to flee. He moves for the door to the saloon, but his brother sees him and growls. Aziraphale lunges between them and Crowley retreats into the Pink Room.

“Lock the door, Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts but knows it’s only for show.

Crowley was never given a key to that room, and, even if he had been, it would be in their den along with his proper clothes. Lucifer shoves Aziraphale and the Alpha stumbles backward.

“I have had enough of this!” Lucifer shouts.

He sets the knife on the desk to bend down with his only hand to retrieve the keys.Aziraphale moves quickly and grabs the knife. With one movement, he throws it into the fireplace. Without pause, he runs into the Pink Room and slams the door behind him. Crowley cowers in the far corner, huddled on the floor beside his desk. Aziraphale doesn’t wait, he snags one of the chairs from the wall and shoves it under the door handle. It will not keep Lucifer out for long, but perhaps the coin inside the cashbox will keep him occupied for a moment. With this thought, he rushes to Crowley’s side.

“Crowley, my darling,” he whispers, carefully cupping his mate’s injured face.

“Samuel isn’t hurt, let’s focus on that,” Crowley says, trying to calm him.

Aziraphale pulls the top of his tailcoat back and glances under it. The baby’s cheek is smashed against Crowley’s bare chest, snoring. Aziraphale reaches down and cups the tiny nape of his neck. Without another thought, he scents Samuel’s forehead again, then trails scent oil up Crowley’s neck. Carefully, he peels back his handkerchief and examines the cut.

“It’s deeper than it looks,” he warns his mate, before tying the cloth back in place.

Lucifer yells something from the study and knocks something over. It crashes to the ground. Crowley leans forward and presses his forehead to Aziraphale’s chest.

“He attacked Eve,” Crowley whispers. “In the dressing room. I opened the door to help her and he… he broke into the den, Angel. I disobeyed—”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all, my love. You’re here and you kept the baby safe. I’m proud of you for protecting our staff,” he interrupts, wrapping his arms around his husband.

Lucifer turns the door handle to the door that separates them. The chair moves some but then presses into the wood floor. It lurches to a stop. Aziraphale stands and pulls Crowley up.

“Time to go, my dear,” he says before leading him to the doorway to the Billiard room.

The door is locked and Aziraphale frowns at it. Then with a sharp eye, he measured out the distance, steps back, then kicks the door quickly. It takes three kicks for the latch to slide free, but then they’re under the tapestry and into the dark game room. Aziraphale leads them to the door and opens it carefully into the saloon. Lucifer is still beating on the door between the study and the Pink Room.

Aziraphale steps out first and pulls his husband behind him. They slip past the open door and into the dining room. Aziraphale opens the door to the servant’s entrance to the dining room and guides Crowley in. The room and hallway downstairs are dark, so they creep along, feeling for the edge of the first step. Out in the saloon, Lucifer yells. Crowley takes off down the steps then, trusting his body to find each step. Aziraphale lumbers after him with less of his agility. They’re met at the bottom of the steps by Mrs. Tracy wielding a rolling pin. Behind her, a group of younger servants is also armed with iron pans, coal shovels, bedwarmers, or brooms.

“Ah!” she yells, “My lords I nearly scalped you! Oh, Lord Crowley, you are in a state!”

She lowers her pin and bustles to their side. “Into the kitchen with you both.”

The tailcoat slips from Crowley’s chest then and all the servants gasp and coo at the sight of Samuel’s little capped head.

“Is that the little Lord?” Peggy asks.

“Of course it is, you idiot,” snarks Brian. “He’s the only baby you see here!”

Tracy ignores them all and tugs the two men into the kitchen proper. “Let’s get you warm, then. Ellen, see if you can find something for poor Omega Lord Fellthrop to wear. He’s been drug out of his den in his nightgown.”

Then she pulls a wooden-backed chair from a desk nearby and sets it by the ovens. Crowley sinks into it, gratefully.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Aziraphale stands over him, then tucks the coat over his shoulders once more. Ellen appears with one of the livery cloaks.

“You can’t ask him to wear that,” Wensleydale hisses, but Aziraphale takes it from Ellen with a smile.

“This is perfect. Thank you.”

Crowley grunts when he stands. He shifts Samuel as Aziraphale helps him clasp the cloak. It’s large enough that Crowley can drape it overtop Samuel’s back as another layer. Quartermaster appears and helps Aziraphale into his tailcoat once more. Aziraphale has to force himself to keep his lip from curling back in a snarl. His valet is only helping, he’s not approaching his mate and pup in any dangerous manner.

There is a clatter from the top of the stairs and Quartermaster grabs his makeshift weapon and rejoins the others. Lucifer exits the stairwell slowly, taking in each face as he does.

“What a welcome,” he drawls with a broken nose whistle. “You really have pulled out all the stops for me. I must say that I did expect torches and pitchforks.”

He steps down the last step and some of the servants retreat. A few others hold their ground. Aziraphale rumbles a warning growl. This is not what this staff signed up for.

“Crowley, you need to hide,” he says over his growl.

His mate argues, “Sorry, angel, you’re stuck with me.”

Lucifer steps forward. A few maids and the hallway fall back in fear.

“I really have no interest in hurting any of you—“

“What about Eve then?” Brian asks, defiantly. “You nearly killed her. If Omega Lord Fellthrop hadn’t stopped you, you could have killed her!”

Lucifer shrugs and his missing hand is noticeable in the gesture. Aziraphale finds himself following the linen-wrapped stump with his eyes. Lucifer spies him and gives a slow smile.

“It was not my intention to kill anyone—“

“You beat up Lord Crowley well enough,” Mrs. Tracy argues, shrilly.

“If you can’t wrestle with your brother, then who can you, right?” Lucifer jokes as if he hadn’t nearly cut his brother’s throat a few moments before.

Lucifer takes an exaggerated step forward, telegraphing each step. The servants still form a barrier, but he is very aware, as is Aziraphale, that they will not attack. Aziraphale casts around for a weapon. Lucifer stands now in the doorway to the kitchen proper, with only Mrs. Tracy between him and the lords.

“You will not come into my kitchen,” Mrs. Tracy declares.

“Won’t I?” Lucifer asks, then shoves her aside.

She crashes into her desk and then down to the floor. Other staff rushes to her side, but Lucifer is already striding toward Aziraphale with purpose. The Alpha rolls his shoulders and bares his teeth. A vicious growl pulls from his chest and he stands his ground.

“I brought with me what you need,” Lucifer states, tossing some banknotes onto the preparation table in the center of the kitchen.

He sets down the inkwell and quill pen beside it, scattering flour. He taps his finger on the banknote. Aziraphale glares at his bloodied knuckles. He broke the skin there on Crowley’s face. Some of the servants shift in the hall and a few comment among themselves.

“I feel we should add some money now that you’ve made me run all over the house. I have taken some of it from the cashbox, but you’ll need to furnish the rest from the bank.”

Samuel squawks indignantly from behind him, but Aziraphale does not turn to see what Crowley is doing. He takes a single step forward, better placing himself between his mate and Lucifer. He clears his throat and glares at the other Alpha.

“I do not know how to tell you in any other, more succinct way. I will not pay you,” Aziraphale states.

Lucifer snarls, “Then I will continue my encouragement, I suppose.”

The staff gasps or yells warnings as Lucifer reaches for a knife on the prep table. Crowley shoves a piece of firewood into Aziraphale’s hand, simultaneously. Aziraphale swings the wood back like a cricket bat and, as Lucifer charges at him, brings it crashing against his head. The Alpha crumples sideways and grabs onto the edge of the prep table. He staggers back up, still holding the knife. Peggy sobs.

Crowley jumps up and squeezes behind Aziraphale, heading for the door. Lucifer roars and leaps at him. Things seem to move in slow motion. Aziraphale feels like he missed some part of the action. Now, when he blinks slowly, he sees that Crowley holds Samuel with one arm and braces Lucifer’s wrist in his hand with the other. The knife is aloft. Lucifer fights to push it down and Crowley struggles to hold it up. It trembles in his grasp.

Aziraphale drops his firewood and rushes forward, snarling. Lucifer slaps his stump hand into Crowley’s chest and must hit Samuel because the baby begins to scream. Aziraphale loops his arm around Lucifer’s neck and pulls his own arm over the other Alpha’s shoulder by the wrist. Using the chokehold, he drags Lucifer backward. Lucifer tries to rear back and head-butt Aziraphale, but he dodges the movement. Crowley steps backward and escapes the downward thrust of the blade. Lucifer swings the knife up again, this time angling it down and behind him, aiming for Aziraphale’s gut.

Crowley passes the baby to Ellen and charges forward in the same breath. He punches his brother in the stomach and his downward trajectory slices off to the side. It only catches Aziraphale’s coat. Aziraphale releases Lucifer and shoves him in the opposite direction. His rage carries him forward, and, instead of escaping, the other Alpha rebounds. He swings the kitchen knife through the air like a sword and threatens both of the couple.

Aziraphale is now only able to think in terms of rage. His Omega is fighting an Alpha. It makes every rational thought depart his brain. Instead, he attacks like a beast. He swings his fist at Lucifer’s face, narrowly avoiding his blade. Lucifer grunts and his face turns with the punch. Aziraphale brings his fist back and hammers it down again and again. Lucifer gasps for breath and Aziraphale shoves him backward.

Lucifer stumbles and catches himself on the prep table once more. The knife hangs limp in his hand as fresh blood runs down from his nose. Aziraphale’s lips curl and his growl is nothing but fury. How can Crowley call him an angel when he is clearly a beast?

Then Crowley’s hand settles on his shoulder.

“Aziraphale,” he says softly, beaconing him back.

Aziraphale turns, his vision blurry with his anger. “Stay back, Omega.”

Cedar wafts through the air as Crowley brushes his bare wrist across Aziraphale’s temple, scenting him. With it comes some clarity. Aziraphale takes a deep breath.

“My dear,” he whispers, gruffly.

He takes Crowley’s hand and presses his nose into his exposed scent gland. His eyelids flutter shut and he breathes deeply. It reminds him of their first morning after they'd just met. Crowley gives a rough laugh, but it turns into a gasp. It’s echoed by servants. Aziraphale lifts his head a moment too late. Lucifer is making another charge. He rushes at them and Crowley shoves Aziraphale away, out of danger. The Alpha is so off-balance that he stumbles away, even as he tries to shield his mate.

Lucifer’s handless arm works like a ballast as he swings the knife wide. Crowley twists around, trying to dodge, but his brother grabs the fabric of the livery cloak and yanks him off balance. The resulting movement leaves both brothers stumbling. Lucifer over calculates and falls, tugging Crowley down on top of him. There is a gasp, a grunt, then Crowley pulls away and crawls to his husband. Aziraphale is already at his side, yanking him from the floor and into his arms.

Lucifer lies on the floor, gasping like a fish. His arm is bent to an extreme degree under him. It seems it's bent that way because Crowley collapsed on it. His hand is under his body and the knife is nowhere to be seen.

Aziraphale touches Crowley’s face in quick, light touches. “Crowley! Crowley, are you—oh, my darling, Crowley,” he says, frightened.

Crowley tucks into him, hiding his face under his Alpha’s chin and nuzzling desperately as if convincing himself they’re both alive. Wensleydale and Quartermaster join them, each moving hesitantly. Crowley looks past them.

“I need Samuel,” he says and pulls away to reclaim his child from the housemaid.

Once his child is in his arms, he returns to the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. “We need to call the constable. I want them to actually arrest my brother this time, not just threaten him.”

“Ugh, my lord?” Brian asks, from behind Wensleydale. “There’s no need.”

Wensleydale stands up and dusts off his hands, “We might need that coffin maker again though.”

Aziraphale’s brain is slow to comprehend their words. His entire focus is on his mate and their pup. He is thinking about den, nest, knot, scent, and those other base instincts. He blinks, stupidly.

“Coffin?”

Lucifer gives a hoarse cough from the floor as Quartermaster rolls him over. The kitchen knife he had held is embedded in his side, nearly around to his back. He's possibly punctured his own kidney. Dark blood pools under him.

Aziraphale turns Crowley away from the sight, “Don’t look, my love.”

Crowley sucks on his teeth audibly and hides his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. If it’s due to seeing his brother dying or following his Alpha’s order, Aziraphale does not know.

“Send for the doctor,” Aziraphale says. “And the constable.”

He guides Crowley and Samuel past the sight and shoos the younger staff away. He does not want them to see it if they do not have to. As the lord of the house, he is responsible for protecting them.

“Someone please go to the Dowager House and collect everyone there. We can send someone to the pub for sandwiches for everyone as well, I believe it’s going to be a long evening,” he says.

"Nonsense, I can still make some for everyone," Mrs. Tracy declares, then looks past Brian to where Lucifer lies dying. "I can use him as a rug. It's more than he deserves."

Quartermaster brings the banknotes from the kitchen and Aziraphale shoves them unceremoniously into his pocket. He is far more concerned about his household, specifically his family, than his fortune at the moment. Crowley hums a lullaby to Samuel, but his eyes are frightened. Aziraphale helps Crowley up the stairs to sit on them.

“We could just dig a hole in the backyard and stick my brother there,” Crowley says, trying to hide his fear in a jest.

“Forgive me, my love, but we already the source of enough gossip. If we are found digging graves, I feel that might be too much at last for the community.”

They lean against one another as the staff bustles around them. Crowley chuckles quietly until Aziraphale kisses his temple.

“Care to share the joke, my dearest?”

“Sure, angel, I was just thinking that we came together for an arranged match to avoid the scandal of being unwed,” Crowley says with another chuckle. 

Aziraphale kisses his Omega mark again and huffs his humor against his husband’s skin. “Good Lord, and that I claimed you before we bothered to get married. Remember when that was the only thing we worried about?”

Samuel gives a displeased cry and snuffles against Crowley’s chest. They both adjust the cloak and their seating arrangement to look down at him. His dark eyes glint up at them and his head wobbles as he tries to hold it up. Crowley cups his neck. Aziraphale adjusts the baby’s cap.

“Lord Fellthrop?” Quartermaster calls.

“Here, we’re here,” Aziraphale answers, thinking that he might not see them on the dark steps.

“The Dowager and Lady Uriel have been sent for. I am sure they'll want to see that you and Omega Lord Fellthrop are all right,” he reports.

Aziraphale scents the baby’s forehead then kisses Crowley’s temple a third and final time.

“I suppose we need to get you cleaned up then,” he says as stands and helps his mate to his feet.

“I don’t think it will help my case, angel,” Crowley admits with a hangman’s horror. “I murdered my brother.”

Aziraphale freezes and wheels around on the steps. “Crowley! That could not be further from the truth. You defended your nest. You defended Samuel and me. Besides, you never touched the handle of that knife.”

“But I fought with him,” Crowley argues, his voice small.

“As did I,” Aziraphale answers, cupping his husband’s neck and pulling him flush against him. “We did not plan this ahead nor did we want him to die. We wanted to be left alone. Those are not the same things.”

Crowley looks down at Samuel again. “You told me once that you were willing to die in a war to keep us safe. If they take me away, if they charge me for this, promise me you won’t take the blame. You have to take care of our son.”

“Crowley,” he says slowly.

“Angel. _Aziraphale_ , Alpha, promise me.”

Aziraphale leans forward and kisses his mate. “You have my word. I will not come to that though.”

They ascend the stairs and Aziraphale thinks about Fortune’s wheel. It has turned again for Anthony and Lucifer. As such, it has also spun for the Dame and Lady Blanc, as well as their children. He sends a silent prayer up that her fickle wheel will not spin and take Crowley or him from the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> \- Aziraphale is absolutely the hardest character to write in this universe. In canon, he's a guardian, but needs convinced to act. In this, his duty also drives him, but not to Heaven's "good", but to his nature. It makes him act differently than he does in canon and I struggle with that.  
> \- The window tax is the silliest thing ever. You paid according to how many windows your house had--so people bricked them up. How did the Dame ever pay all those taxes? Hmm.  
> \- The Dame is the least trustworthy human ever. I don't even know what Anthony likes her at all. That said, I assume that she would still have some pull over him as his Alpha.  
> \- When a young male child was of a certain age (it depended on the family and the size of the kid), he was removed from gowns as "breeched". It was usually on a birthday because that would already have a crowd around. He'd come into the party in a dress, disappear into another room, and reappear in his little skeleton suit.  
> \- Motion sickness in carriages was very common  
> \- Coral was believed to keep sickness away. Children often wore them as necklaces and used coral as dummies/pacifiers. The diadem mentioned is real. It's only $2,800 if you need it from an auction house.  
> \- Michael is sort of redeemed. Maybe. Anyway, she's dealt with. Onto the next loose end.  
> \- BYE LUCIFER.   
> \- One more chapter, my friends. Thank you for reading and your kind comments! It is really possible that I will have to edit older chapters and fix mistakes (some of you commented about the piercing needing cleaned earlier, so that's one). I might also have to resolve some of my plot twists that way. I'll let you know if editing comes! xoxo


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling readers.   
> It's complete.  
> I don't think I tied up all the loose ends, so if you'll let me know if you see some glaring oversight, I'd appreciate it. Also, you'll be seeing me update other chapters... I know I need to fix a few things (mostly typos).
> 
> The point is... the point is... dolphins.   
> And also, thank you for reading this and sharing your comments and love.   
> I appreciate you,  
> B

The breakfast table is set with china, bread, and honey. There are some chafing dishes on the buffet steaming with food. Uriel sits demurely to Crowley’s left sipping tea. The Dowager, bearing a plate of food, seats herself across from him. They’re quiet this morning, each in their own thoughts.

Crowley traces the ribs on his teacup and sips the scalding beverage. It’s shy of milk, but he’s hesitant to break the silence and ask Uriel to pass it to him. The Dowager’s fork scrapes the plate loudly. Crowley smiles awkwardly at her and sips his tea.

His brother Lucifer has been dead for two days and was interned, with great pomp, the previous night. Aziraphale is still abed, as he attended the midnight service and returned home in the wee, dark hours of the morning. They had discussed Crowley also attending but Aziraphale was hesitant.

“I never wanted you to have to return to Tophet,” Aziraphale admitted, kissing his Omega mark. “This is very soon after their trespasses against you, my darling.”

Crowley sighed, pleased at the kiss. “I know, but I want to be there for Blanc and Adam. It’s the right thing to do.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully and kissed him again. “May I tell you something in confidence? Something that may upset you?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and sunk against his Alpha. “Anything you tell me shall remain a secret, angel. I’d rather you out with it because otherwise, you fret.”

Aziraphale huffed, primly as if they were bickering. However, it subsided quickly at his serious tone. “I fear for your safety in that place—indeed anywhere around your family. Your brother’s death was lamentable, yet, secretly, I rejoice. He cannot harm you now.”

Crowley pressed his forehead into Aziraphale’s sternum and ignored how his hair ribbon moved in the motion. The knot of Aziraphale’s cravat brushed his temple. Samuel slept between them with his face smushed against Crowley’s-mourning-weed-covered chest. Crowley was not surprised to find a baby-size drool puddle on his dress, It was an indulgent thing, he thinks as he kisses the infant’s head.

Aziraphale rumbled at the image this made. He curled his soft fingers around the nape of Crowley’s neck and rubbed his thumb in tiny circles at the skin under his ear. 

“You do not think me a devil for saying such a thing?” Aziraphale asked, his voice tight with worry.

“No, never.”

“Lucifer’s death only leaves a multitude of other agents. Your mother is our greatest enemy, I believe,” he said softly.

“You do not think that Anthony will soothe her savage beast? Having her Omega home must be of some consequence. I actually wonder if you should see them at the graveside at all,” Crowley said as he tried not to make a face at the thought of his parents in their nest.

“I think that Lady Burningstone could overrun every element of her nature if there was a farthing she could gain from it,” Aziraphale admitted, darkly.

Crowley snorted out a laugh and sat up to kiss his husband’s mouth. “Aziraphale, sweetheart, you are the best bastard I have ever met. How did I get so lucky, angel?” he said against his mouth.

Instead, Crowley stood in the doorway at dusk and watched the carriage bounced along the rutted road up toward Crowley’s childhood home. He raised his hand to wave goodbye to his husband. And he’d gone to bed in the East Room and laid awake until Aziraphale rejoined him.

He sips his tea and watches Brian enter with a silver plate of the post. He stops at Crowley first.

“Omega Lord Fellthrop, there is a good deal of post for your husband,” he says, showing there are packages and letters.

“I’m headed up. I’ll deliver it if you’d like?” he asks, taking the collection.

“Lord Crowley,” Uriel reprimands, clearly thinking herself still Lady Fellthrop, “it’s not appropriate to take the post before the lady of the house.”

Crowley tosses back the rest of his tea and stands, readjusting his hold on the bundle, “Good rule of thumb, overall. Good thing I’m the Omega of the house then, isn’t it?”

It’s rude and he knows better. Uriel is ill, but Crowley has no time for her foolishness this morning. He strides out of the dining room and hurries up the steps to the family wing. Servants bustle about and he follows them like a line of insects.

The Lord of the Manor’s suite’s windows are open and the air blows in. Gabriel and Uriel’s things are gone from the room; the furniture has all been shuffled away to make room for his and Aziraphale’s belongings.

For the move, Aziraphale and he elected to choose a new bed from another of the bedrooms. It’s a heavy, dark-framed bed with a tree carved into the headboard. Crowley plans to order thick burgundy curtains with golden vines embroidered for them. It’s a nice mix of their individual colors and fashions, he thinks.

Wensleydale pauses from placing a rolled-up rug in front of the fireplace, “My lord?”

Crowley waves his concern away, “Nevermind me, just being too curious for my own good. Bad habit, I’m afraid.”

Ellen has scrubbed the walls and Peggy has removed the drapes from the windows to wash. The room is like a clean canvas for their paint. It will be a nice nest soon. He steps back into the hall to leave the staff to their duties. They have plenty of books and shelves to move today. It would not do to be in their way.

He moves through the early morning shadows to the East Room. It’s one of the few rooms Uriel refurnished, which is a shame. The far wall is dominated by an eyesore of a French sofa bed. Its canopy hangs from an ornate metal frame of gold-gilded cherubs that are mounted on the wall. Seafoam green satin curtains cascade down to the overly decorated sleigh bed. All over the head and footboard and more gold-dipped angels. They’re elevated from the wood and tend to scrap Crowley each time he brushes against them. The bed itself is covered in patterned white muslin and satin brocade.

It would all make Crowley gag if not for Aziraphale and Samuel tucked in together on it. He closes the door behind him soundlessly and flicks the lock. Then he kicks off his shoes and drops the post onto the bedside table. Then, with sure fingers, he unlaces his simple day dress and pulls it over his head. As he does, his hand brushes his breast and he notes that he’s almost bursting with milk. He hopes Samuel is up for a meal.

Aziraphale is sprawled across the bed with Samuel sleeping on his chest. One blanket covers them both as they lay skin-to-skin. Crowley carefully lifts the baby and Aziraphale’s eyes startled open.

“Go back to sleep,” the Omega whispers and set to changing the infant.

Once finished, Samuel shivers, and Crowley wraps him in a blanket. With a sigh, the Omega slips under the duvet with him.

“This is my life now,” he grumbles, “dirty nappies and tender breasts.”

“And I’m so proud of you for handling it with such grace,” Aziraphale answers, sleepily.

He stretches up to kiss Crowley and his mate meets him halfway.

“I thought you were going back to sleep,” Crowley replies from against his mouth.

“I had a better offer: spending time with you,” Aziraphale says with another kiss.

Crowley purrs with pleasure. They trade kisses until Samuel gives a cry, murmuring his displeasure.Aziraphale chuckles and pulls back to look down at his son.

“Are you jealous there, my little lad?”

He leans over and pulls back Samuel’s cap. He kisses the dark, downy hair there. The baby stretches and yawns with a chirp. Crowley adjusts him so he lays in the crook of his elbow and blinks up at them both with brown eyes. Aziraphale straightens his lacy cap and touches his fingertip to the baby’s nose.

“I understand, Samuel. I too horde your Omba’s attention. I do ask though,” he leans forward and touches his same finger to Samuel’s cheek, “that you remember that I have loved him first. Try not to keep me from him too often.”

Crowley can only stare, mouth agape, at his Alpha. His infant son gives a little mew of displeasure then chirrups as if agreeing. Aziraphale kisses the babe’s forehead again then sits up to kiss Crowley in the same place.

“Angel,” he whispers, meeting his eye and then kissing his mouth.

Samuel wriggles and they part to look down at their son. He kicks his legs free of his blankets and raises his arms. He squints his eyes. He yawns and tosses his head. His eyebrows rise and lower, showing a variety of emotions from irritation to surprise. Crowley is enraptured at each tiny moment. Samuel curls his tongue and makes a soft noise that makes Aziraphale reach out to touch his nose again.

“A moment’s patience, son,” Aziraphale says and pulls Crowley’s chin to him for another deep kiss.

Samuel has had enough of this and cries, hungry. Crowley chuckles, then lifts the baby up. He latches on to Crowley’s teat with a slurp. He sets a smooth rhythm: gulp, swallow, breathe, grunt, gulp, swallow, breathe. It’s familiar and settles Crowley, even as he begins to form his questions about Tophet.

“How was… everything last night?” he asks.

Aziraphale rubs a palm across his face and sits up straighter. “I wish I could say it was pleasant.”

Crowley leans against his husband and tucks his head under Aziraphale’s chin. After a few moments, he leans back and nuzzles along his Alpha’s jaw. Aziraphale’s arms are strong around his shoulders and he fumbles for the edge of the blanket. He drapes it over Samuel’s back like a curtain. His chin a padded sharpness against Crowley’s nose and cheek.

“Your mother promised to call on us today.”

Crowley startles so badly that his purr completely stalls. “Why ever for?”

“The annuity.”

Crowley snaps, “Oh for the love of—“

“Promise me, darling, that you’ll stay close to me. I am very hesitant that we should even be accepting their visit,” he says slowly. “Yet your family has done more harm to us than help.” He kisses the top of Crowley’s hair. “Please forgive me, darling. That was unkind.”

“It was bloody true,” Crowley whispers. “Why are they coming? Why have you allowed it?”

Aziraphale sits very still before he answers. “If they were only my demons, my love, I would keep you safe at Zionview Grove and sort them out myself. But they’re yours, compounded now as ours. Lucifer’s death has caused some…unexpected ripples that your sister Dagon illuminated last night.”

“My sister Dagon is a gossip who enjoys stirring up trouble.”

“Hmm, yes, while that may be true—“

“Angel, why are you letting them come here? Every time they’ve set foot in Zionview Grove it has been to harm us.”

“Crowley, I want you to promise me something before you react: consider how we have the upper hand here.”

Crowley turns in Aziraphale’s arms and studies him with a confused look. “That might be true on paper, but it’s never benefited us in the past.”

“Which is why we are on the defense. We will be prepared for their visit today. I wrote up the plan for Shadwell last night and delivered it before bed,” Aziraphale says, proudly.

Crowley continues to stare at his mate in disbelief. He feels stupid. “Aziraphale. Angel. This is a terrible idea.”

“It’s not, actually, because you have all the power in this situation,” Aziraphale answers, his eyes sharp.

“Because I’ve buried a brother and an enemy?” Crowley asks, irritated.

“Was he ever a brother to you? I only knew him when he was being blaggard and an insolent creature who deserved to be ground under your shoe,” Aziraphale continues, his voice pitching low in his ire.

“You’re changing the subject."

Even so, Crowley cannot help but smile at his mate’s anger.

Aziraphale adjusts the collar of his sleep shirt so that it closes. The bare skin where Samuel had slept disappears. He smooths the gaudy duvet under his palms.

“Angel,” Crowley growls.

“Yes, well, of course. It seems that your father Anthony has… told some… well falsehoods,” Aziraphale begins.

“Oh? What about this time? His name? His family?”

“His fortune.”

Crowley sighs, “He’s spent the annuity.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says carefully. “For years he has made withdrawals at your mother’s request. He has been supporting Lady Burningstone—and, by extension, you—for years.”

“And it’s all gone now,” Crowley summarizes.

“Well, rather, I suppose—I’m going about this all wrong,” Aziraphale laments and if he were not in bed, he’d be pacing.

Even though he’s anxious to hear this news, he cannot stand to see his husband this upset. He tilts back his head and kisses Aziraphale’s throat at his strange, upside-down angle. His husband gives a delightfully deep rumble of pleasure, then rests his chin on Crowley’s head. It seems to settle Aziraphale.

“You are to inherit Tophet,” Aziraphale says without any preamble.

“What?” Crowley shouts, surging forward.

Samuel releases his hold on his Omba’s nipple and screams in displeasure. Milk dribbles down his front and onto Samuel’s cheek.

“Shhh, little one, Omba’s just startled,” Aziraphale soothes, pulling Crowley back against him and helping him resettle the baby.

“Aziraphale, I swear if you don’t fucking explain—“

“My dear, such language in front of the baby—“

“ _Aziraphale_.”

The Alpha growls his displeasure, but it’s short-lived. He clears his throat but waits to speak until Samuel’s nursing rhythm restarts.

“As I said, Omega Lord Burningstone has not been as truthful as I had hoped. For one, he and Lady Burningstone have always been in contact. He has been supporting her for years. However, he is also shrewd. Each time he sent her money, he added a stipulation to the fee. He knew that she was… inattentive to financial documents and regularly signed them without reading them.

“Through the years he used this to his advantage. For one, he built up gossip about two twins locked away from society and terribly treated. He used his brother’s name and distinction to make suggestions that Lady Burningstone was his mistress and mother of his twins. People are well aware that you are Raphael’s son.”

“If it’s so well known, angel, then why is this news to me? Or to you? Surely someone did some research on my family before suggesting our match?” Crowley answers.

Aziraphale hums, “One would think. I believe this has been kept from you because your family had not entered you into society. Dagon and Usher were well aquatinted with these notions and both expressed displeasure at visiting London for that reason.”

Crowley turns and hides his face in Aziraphale’s neck. “How does this gossip make me inherit Tophet?”

“It seems that public opinion is very set against the Jayanthony’s for their treatment of you. When Anthony suggested that he begin to whittle away Lady Burningstone’s ownership of Tophet with each withdrawal, solicitors and bankers agreed to the scheme. You’ve been lord of Tophet in all but name for the last six years,” Aziraphale says carefully.

He rubs Crowley’s arm as if to comfort him. Crowley cannot find any words.

“Have I upset you with this?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley shakes his head. He finally says, “That’s why Lucifer came that night.”

“Actually, no.”

“Did they just discover this?” he asks meekly.

“According to Usher, yes. Anthony disclosed it upon Lucifer’s death.”

They sit in companionable silence for some time. Words and ideas flicker through Crowley’s mind until he finally begins to speak. He sits up and faces his mate.

“As a child, I thought that was the way Alpha’s were expected to behave—pushy and rude. You have taught me that they, and those like them, are not the sort of example I should have had for their—or, honestly, my secondary gender.”

Aziraphale shifts, uncomfortably, “You think they helped form your opinion of what an Omega should be? My darling, when we first met you had to deny your own personality to stay within their expectations.”

Crowley hums in agreement and bites his lip. “I knew what they expected of me, certainly. I also knew I was to be their opposite. So, yes, they did.”

“You know now that you’re not expected to hold such conduct?” Aziraphale asks carefully.

“Obviously, angel,” Crowley replies, leaning heavily into his honed sarcasm. “But they’re also now beholden to me for their continued existence at Tophet. I do not expect that such was welcomed news. In their eyes, I am only an Omega and can be manipulated to achieve their wants. My brother Lucifer’s actions here time and again are proof of that.”

“That said,” Aziraphale answers carefully, “I would not have you engaging in fisticuffs again. I know that was an unusual situation, but the chances of it happening again are high. Your secondary gender is not made for such posturing and fighting. Please, my dear boy, do not put yourself in that situation.”

Crowley considers his words. His immediate reaction is too frustrated to question whether Aziraphale thinks he can protect himself. However, he passes this and weighs his words.

“You would have killed Lucifer if I hadn’t interfered.”

Aziraphale seems to be in a similar place, where choosing individual words is worth taking time and care. He twists one of Crowley’s curls around his finger, then brushes it away from his Omega’s face.

“I kept my Alpha nature contained because I would not endanger you that night,” he finally says.

“You don’t want to be at war anymore, angel. You said you retired from war. I’m was trying to keep you from becoming a warrior again—I also did not want to see you on trial for murder,” Crowley states.

It goes unsaid that he himself could still be brought up on charges, even though few people are interested in pursuing such a case.

“I have no interest in being a murderer, that is true, but… I should never have let it get that far,” Aziraphale finally says.

Crowley considers how to reply, but he’d momentarily distracted. Samuel sighs, sleepily, and lets his fist relax and open. Crowley shifts him up, burps him, and moves him to the other breast. Crowley feels a slow, syrupy purr begin in his chest. It surprises him, but he lets it roll out. Aziraphale chuffs with pleasure and touches Crowley’s bare clavicle. He frowns and casts around the room. He slides out of the bed and retrieves Crowley’s shawl. He pulls it up to cover his mate’s bare skin.

“You’re cool to the touch, my darling. I do not want you catching a chill,” he worries.

As he sits on the bed, he pulls the knit blanket from the foot as well. He adds this over Crowley’s shoulders as well. He then returns to his place in the bed and wraps his arms securely around Crowley. Satisfied, he kisses Crowley's Omega-marked temple.

“Should I resend the invitation?” Aziraphale asks Crowley. “We could have the lawyers deal with this unpleasantness.”

“I doubt they are all coming, but I would like you to meet Adam. I would like to give my sympathy to Blanc,” he says softly.

“Perhaps we can invite them to dine in the future,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley bites his lip as he considers who might attend. “The Dame will come, without question. Dagon and Hastur will likely come as well. If it looks like it’s unsafe or I should leave, then you tell me. I will obey you.”

Aziraphale makes an exaggerated, disbelieving noise. “You will _obey_ me? Who are you and what have you done with my mate? He’s far too obstinate to agree to such a thing.”

Crowley chuckles but then quiets. “I did disobey you, Aziraphale. One of the only orders you’ve ever given me as my Alpha.”

Aziraphale sits back then and studies him with a furrowed brow. “I do not know what you mean, my dear?”

Crowley swallows and adjusts his hold on Samuel. “You told me to stay in the den. It was clearly an order, but I… I couldn’t obey. I’m sorry, angel. Eve was screaming for help… I _had_ to help her.”

Aziraphale surges forward again and wraps Crowley tightly in his arms. He showers kisses across his auburn hair and pale skin. “My darling, my wonderful, brave darling. I do not hold such a thing against you. You in no way disobeyed me, my love.”

Crowley heaves a relieved sob at this admission. They haven’t talked about that day before now. Here, in his mate’s arms, the words pour of him like a story.

_Crowley shoves the jib-door open and races into his dressing room. He’s momentarily surprised to see Lucifer, of all people, but the shock dissipates. Lucifer beats Eve with his closed fist. He’s outlined by the fireplace—like stained glass of domestic abuse. Eve sobs huddled on the floor. Between one inhale and the next, Crowley charges forward and pulls his brother off his maid._

_Lucifer spins, inelegantly, and punches Crowley. Crowley staggers backward, clutching his eye. Eve scrambles up, climbing over the bed. Lucifer grabs her by the ankle and pulls her back toward him. She screams and kicks. Crowley looks around in a panic for a weapon. Without a second thought, he shoves the tall mirror against Lucifer’s back. It shatters and Lucifer falls under it. Crowley feels like he’s in a watercolor image. The corners are smudged._

_He hurries to Eve’s side and helps her stand, “C’mon, up we go.”_

_Before they can move, somehow, Lucifer is there. Eve gasps and falls again to the floor. Lucifer shoves Crowley and he trips backward but manages to regain his footing. Lucifer swings again and Crowley takes his knuckles to the jaw. He falls into the cradle and it explodes into a shower of tinder wood. Crowley tastes blood. He blinks against the haziness in his vision. Time splinters like flashes of light._

“Then Lucifer was in the den. Samuel was screaming and Eve was trying to get to him to stop him—I wasn’t fast enough. He had the baby. I know I punched him. I know I hit him… I don’t remember getting Samuel back but I did. Eve got me into the hall and I ran. Lucifer chased us. I fell on the steps and he kicked at me and he grabbed us—“

“Hush, hush, now, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers, kissing skin and rocking them.

  
Crowley isn’t crying, but any more thought on the subject would push him over the edge. He’s trembling already. Samuel must feel it because he opens sleep-heavy eyes and releases his suction on Crowley’s nipple. He smacks his lips and brings one hand to his face. Aziraphale takes Samuel over his shoulder and burps him twice. In that time, Crowley hides his face in his hands, then pulls up his small clothes to cover himself.

Samuel is dozing when Aziraphale hands him back and tugs Crowley close. He speaks softly.

“Some believe that violence is a tool. These people believe that violence can be a moral victory if used for the ‘right' reasons. But violence gives no weight to any argument, even though many in the current thinking would say so,” he says carefully as he stokes Crowley’s hair. “These same people are willing to send others out to do these violent acts while they sleep soundly in their beds. Crowley, my darling, my love, I am so sorry you had to experience that. I… I never wanted that for you.”

“I would have killed him, Aziraphale,” Crowley admits, his voice strange. “When he had Samuel… I was going to bash his head in with the fire poker. Eve grabbed it first. She’s the reason I didn’t kill him.”

Aziraphale wraps his shawl around his shoulders properly, then wraps the blanket overtop that. Crowley tightens the swaddling around Samuel, then holds him against his sternum. Satisfied, he turns his face and hides it in Aziraphale’s neck.

“He defiled our nest,” he says, his voice tinged with an inkling of his anger and outrage.

A low growl is all Aziraphale is able to reply with. It’s a scent memory for Crowley. Their den hung with the evil smells of anger, fear, blood, and urine. Laced over that was the pungent scent of oleander: Lucifer’s scent oil. Aziraphale had taken one step into their den, sniffed the air, and called Quartermaster to his side.

“Omega Lord Crowley and I will need a room for the night. Lucifer has been in our den… he’s _scented_ our den,” he had growled.

Quartermaster’s eyes widened at the shock of such malevolence. Crowley can admit, days later, that his stomach rebelled and he was sick at the news. This was more than thumbing one’s nose at the rules of the nest, this was _desecrating_ it.

Aziraphale rubs his back and tries to calm him, but he himself is beyond enraged. Crowley can smell the faint hint of pine smoke from his own cuffs and burned pear from Aziraphale’s cuffs. He turns his head and captures his husband’s mouth with his own.

“He paid the price,” Crowley admits, snuggling closer.

  
“He should have stood trial.”

“He’ll stand before his maker, I suppose.”

“May She be just… but also an angry god,” Aziraphale snarls.

His gestures are at odds with his tone. Carefully, he cups his hand overtop Crowley’s, supporting Samuel’s wobbly head. He adjusts his knee and pulls Crowley into the space between his legs on the mattress. He wraps himself all around his husband. Crowley blushes and tucks his face into Aziraphale’s neck. He feels his husband rumble a pleased growl and he squeezes his Omega. He’s been this tactile since that night.

No doubt that was due to Crowley’s complete breakdown a few hours after Lucifer’s death. Aziraphale had been ready for his Ome-adrenal drop when it’d come. He himself had been blindsided by it. He’d fallen apart like a child. His husband had cared for him without complaint, cupping his nape and kissing his forehead. Aziraphale had dealt with his need for domination with calm gentleness. Now, thinking about it all, he’s terribly embarrassed. They hadn’t even had sex—they’d barely touched. His purr stutters and fades. Aziraphale wiggles so to see his mate’s face.

“My dear?” he clears his throat, chasing away his previous anger, “Have I upset you?”

Crowley shakes his head, flush still coloring his cheeks. “Scent me?”

“Of course. With pleasure, my dear,” Aziraphale answers, already raising his wrist to Crowley’s temple.

He tilts his head down, noses the blanket away from Crowley’s skin, and kisses his collarbones. He follows this with his wrists, brushing on the scent of winter pears. He only stops to scent the baby. Aziraphale tucks Crowley into the shawl and blanket once more.

“I know this isn’t our nest, my love,” Aziraphale comments, his voice rough, but muted into the blanket. “I also know you’re probably not interested in sex at the moment, but I need to touch you. Would you permit me?”

Crowley swallows. Holding Samuel steady is the main order his brain seems to be capable of at the moment. He bites his lower lip.

“Angel, you know I won’t… it’s not common for Omegas when breastfeeding to… you know.”

Aziraphale chuckles, but it’s a broken thing, “I know your hormones are a bit… out of wack at the moment. I just need to—“

“Whatever you need, angel,” Crowley says, affirmatively.

Aziraphale’s hands slide under the duvet and ruck up Crowley’s shift. His hands rub wide circles across Crowley’s stomach and thighs. When he’s satisfied, Aziraphale’s hands once more hug his husband. His eyes are wet. Aziraphale dabs at them with his thumb.

“Thank you for indulging me, dear boy,” he replies, gruffly.

“Angel, what…” Crowley begins but quiets when his husband touches his throat gently.

Aziraphale is careful to avoid the cut where Lucifer’s knife sliced the skin. His eyes drift from that cut up to Crowley’s swollen jaw.

“I’ve done a terrible job in protecting you,” he whispers. “When I met you I knew I was attracted to you—but I have come to love you more than I could imagine was possible. Yet, from that first day, I knew your family hurt you. I have continued to _let_ them hurt you.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley replies with a sigh, “that’s not true in the least.”

Aziraphale touches the skin on his throat once more, “This is a figment of my imagination then?” His fingers drift to the bruises on his cheek. “Or this?”

Crowley reaches up with his free hand and takes Aziraphale’s hand in his own. “We have lacked every feature of a usual marriage—from introduction until this week. My mother and her schemes have turned every day into a panic or a worry.”

“Yes, I fear we’ll have another to contend within the next few hours.”

Crowley squeezes his fingers and tries to smile, “Do you think we could delay them? Ask them to dine with us in the future?”

Aziraphale frowns heavily and raises Crowley’s fingers to his mouth for a kiss. “My darling, I did not invite your mother. Lady Burningham would have come last night had I not put her off.”

“We could claim that you’ve gone into rut,” Crowley says, considering the logistics of such. “We could hide away and she would go.”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply to this, but instead steers the conversation away, “Thinking on ruts… I’m surprised this business did not send me into one. Having you safe and near me is very much on my mind.”

“You must be due for one soon. I’m sure that Samuel has pushed my heat back, but it’s nearly time myself—heat, I mean,” Crowley says thoughtfully.

Aziraphale nods, considering. “We should look into a nanny soon. One of _our_ choosing, not your mother’s.”

“Perhaps,” Crowley answers. “She’ll be here today though. You won’t put her off.”

“Better to get it over with, I think,” Aziraphale decides. “I did post a notice to the Magistrate that she intended to visit. I thought he should know in advance.”

Crowley glances over at the pile of post he left by the door, “I brought your letters up.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” the Alpha slips out once more to gather the letters and packages. “Oh, thank goodness! I thought I’d lost these in the excitement.”

The word circles and Crowley mouths “excitement” with a disbelieving quark of his lips.

Aziraphale ignores him and quickly unwraps one of the packages. He holds up a soft wool doll where Samuel can see it.

“My darling little lad, I got this for you in town,” he says lovingly.

Crowley chuckles and touches its soft face. “Look what Papa’s brought you, Sam. A little friend for you to spit up on.”

Aziraphale lightly slaps his bicep in reprimand but sets the doll aside. He then selects the other package. This holds a pair of coral necklaces. One tiny, clearly for Samuel, and the other a choker. Aziraphale pulls it free of the box and loops it around Crowley’s neck.

“This, my darling, is for you.”

Crowley reaches up and touches it with his fingers. “Angel—“

“It looks lovely on you, Crowley,” Aziraphale states, his eyes bright. “May it keep illness far from my loves.”

Crowley captures his mouth in a kiss then. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale chuffs delighted and ignores the other box for the collection of letters. He sets the invoices and bills aside to read his correspondence.

“It seems that Anathema and Newt are considering letting a house in Bath. Newt despises London and Anathema is bored with the country,” he summarizes, turning the paper to continue reading. “Well, I hope they find it diverting.”

“Are they well?”

“Indeed. They send you their compliments and best wishes,” Aziraphale says with a smile. “Perhaps we could call on them before they leave for the season.”

Crowley almost says something about appropriate mourning behavior but decides against it. If his Alpha says it is acceptable, then it will be. His mother would be astonished.

The Dame’s face appears unbidden before his mind’s eye. This is a different way than before. He bites his lip.

“My dear?” Aziraphale says, worriedly.

He lowers his letter to study his mate’s face.

Crowley’s words spill out. “Why do you think she hates me so?”

Aziraphale gives a low growl and Samuel stops nursing at its warning. Crowley rubs his tiny head with his thumb and rocks him minutely.

“Steady on, little beast,” he says.

Aziraphale is no less angry, but his words are soft, “She’s a fool and a scoundrel. You are the best of them, my love. How she has failed to see your goodness—“

“M’not good, angel. I’m just a man,” Crowley argues.

Aziraphale frees his hand and cups Crowley’s swollen chin in his hand. “You are the _best_ of men, Crowley.”

“Perhaps to you. To others, I am a wild beast. My family has changed me,” he admits, closing his eyes. “I fought my own brother until he died.”

“Hush now,” Aziraphale soothes, rubbing Crowley’s back. “I’m proud of you. Do you remember how you ran from him when he threatened to take you away? In those first days of our acquaintance? You had taught yourself to hide and protect. Now, you’re strong enough to stand up for yourself.”

Crowley chokes and leans his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Thank you for letting me be myself, Alpha.”

Aziraphale gives a wet chuckle and discretely wipes his eyes with his thumb. “Of all the gifts I could give to you, my love, I wish it were something more tangible.”

Crowley leans forward and kisses his mate’s mouth. “Like that?” he asks, amused.

Aziraphale leans back and wipes his eyes violently with his fingertips. Once done, he cradles Crowley’s jaw in both his hands tenderly. He brings him close and kisses his mouth, then parts Crowley’s lips with his tongue. Samuel grunts sleepily from between them, ignorant of his parents kissing above his head.

“You deserve so much more, Crowley,” Aziraphale argues, speaking tearfully against his husband’s mouth. “I will give you anything you desire, my darling.”

They trade soft kisses until Samuel gains Crowley’s attention once more. His Alpha’s fingers are soft on his injured chin, even then. As the Omega burps the drowsy infant, Aziraphale pulls his shift back into place. Samuel is bundled again and tucked under Crowley’s layers. Then, satisfied, Aziraphale wriggles down in the bed and pulls Crowley with him. They lay, foreheads pressed together with their son snuggled between them. As they cuddle, Aziraphale tells Crowley of his plan.

* * *

When it comes time for them to don their armor, they head to their new den. It’s not yet entirely completed. Crowley peeks in and sees that the bookshelves and bed are installed, but little else. Thankfully, their dressing rooms are ready for use.

Aziraphale and he had walked throughout the house and selected individual items to furnish their new den. His dressing room is to his taste.Crowley looks around, pleased. The high ceilings are accentuated by a large picture window that makes the room seem larger. His dressing table is the same as before and it sits centered on this window.

The fireplace sits behind it. A boudoir couch stands before two large bureaus. There are a pair of boudoir chairs around a delicate desk. It’s comfortable and warm.

Like the Pink Room, this is his space. Only this one he has been able to arrange and order to his taste. On the wall opposite the fireplace, a collection of Ashtoreth’s paintings hang. He stops to admire them as Adamette hurries into the room behind him.

“Those are lovely, my lord,” she says.

“She painted them before she lost her sight completely. See the colors here, how they’re a bit wonky? She couldn’t see very well then,” he says, pointing to a discolored portion of the landscape.

“I think they’re still lovely. Now, if you would, let’s try this on,” she says holding up a new dress.

This gown, like the weeds he wore to Gabriel’s funeral, was found in a trunk in the attic. Adamette picked three dresses apart and redesigned them into one fashionable gown. As she laces him into it, he asks after Eve.

“She’s resting, Your Grace. She had a nightmare so vivid last night that she woke me up, but she’s getting better,” the Omega’s maid replies.

“Do you think I could see her?” Crowley asks, hesitantly.

“Of course. She’d be glad to see you and to meet the little Earl,” Adamette says with a smile.

They both look toward Samuel’s Moses basket which sits on a tufted ottoman by the fire. As if feeling their eyes upon him, the baby blinks sleepily and smacks his lips. With a suck to coral in his mouth, his eyes settle shut once more.

“You promise you don’t mind sitting with him?” Crowley asks.

“I thought I might take him up to see Eve. She would enjoy some time with him if you don’t mind?” Adamette asks, nervously.

Crowley turns so she can lace up his scent cuffs. He smiles and replies, “Lord Samuel will no doubt enjoy it. I truly thank you. We’ll get a nanny soon… I hadn’t actually intended to be out of our nest just yet.”

Adamette nods slowly and guides him over to the dressing table. She combs and pulls his hair up into a complex plait and coil. It’s at odds with the simple bruises and cuts on his face. He touches his chin and cheekbone curiously and winces at the bright flash of pain.

Adamette selects a small powder box of tinted face powder and carefully pats it onto his injuries with a cotton puff. Next, she follows this with a pat of rice flour all over and a brush of bismuth then rouge powder on his cheeks. A little tinted lip salve went on his mouth and she stood back, pleased.

“It’s not makeup of old, Your Grace, but the injuries are a bit more hidden,” she says.

He glances at his reflection and agrees. There is nothing to be done about the black eye or the swollen lip, but this is a start.

Aziraphale raps on the door that connects their bedroom with his dressing room. He eases it open with a curious smile.

“My dear?”

“Just need the final touches, angel,” Crowley says nodding toward his stockings. “Waiting for your help.”

Adamette looks away, embarrassed. Unlike Eve, she was unaware that Aziraphale took great pride in tying his husband’s stockings onto his legs. Crowley chuckles.

“Uriel and her nurse have just left to dine at the Dowager House with my mother,” Aziraphale says. “They asked for the carriage to return them at eleven. I’m hoping she will miss your relations, but we shall see.”

Adamette must take this as a dismissal. She glances toward the Moses basket, but before she can move to leave, Aziraphale produces that third paper-wrapped package from that morning.

“Adamette, stay a moment longer. You may need to help Omega Lord Fellthrop with this,” he says handing it to Crowley.

Crowley’s curiosity makes him smile and rush to open the paper. The box is clearly from the same place as the coral choker, which still loops his neck. Inside sits a coral diadem. Crowley does not move. He stares at the gift.

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale asks, hesitantly.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, “this is too much.”

Aziraphale swoops in and lifts the tiara from the box.

“No more of that. Adamette, might you assist us?” he asks holding the gold and coral diadem out to her.

She takes it quickly and pushes the comb teeth into his complex chignon. It stands out against the smooth slide of his hair and sits elegantly across the plait at the back of his skull.

“You are a vision, Crowley, my love,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley stares at his reflection. If he did not wear the bruises from his fight with his brother, this would be true. Yet, his hair is lovely. He grabs his husband’s hand and kisses his knuckles, gently.

“My lord, the carriages have arrived,” Quartermaster calls from the hall.

“Just so,” Aziraphale says and walks over to Samuel’s basket. “Be good for Adamette, little one. Omba will be with you soon.”

He leans over and kisses his tiny head which makes Samuel squirm and groan. Aziraphale lifts the basket and brings it to Crowley. It sits on his lap and Crowley touches the baby’s nose and cheeks in turn, before curling his tiny hand around his finger.

“I’ll be right upstairs. Tell Eve or Adamette if you’re hungry, all right?” He kisses those tiny fingers and the baby grunts.

He feels a sudden panic. He shouldn’t abandon his child. He swallows and tries to keep the feeling contained.

“It’s all right, my dear,” Aziraphale soothes, lifting the Moses basket from his lap and handing it to Adamette. “He’s in good hands—he’s safer upstairs to be sure.”

She gives a quick curtsy and leaves the room carrying their son. Crowley moves to stand, but his Alpha touches his neck. Before the Omega can argue, Aziraphale kneels and slides his stockings onto his legs with practiced motions.

“I need you focused on the room for your own safety. If it’s too much, tell me and we’ll send them on their way. You can return upstairs at any time, Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley frowns, “There’s no need to baby me, angel.”

Aziraphale ties one stocking and sets Crowley’s foot back onto the floor. “It was not my intention. I am more anxious than I had expected about this meeting.”

Crowley sighs and allows his husband to tie his second stocking above his knee. “We can deny them entry, Aziraphale. Right now. We can send them on their way.”

“It would only delay the inevitable, I’m afraid,” he argues, setting Crowley’s slippers before him to step into. “No, let’s get this over with. We have a plan. Let us stay the course.”

Crowley lifts his gloves and sunglasses from the table and quickly slides them on. “Angel, he said ‘carriages’, if all of them came then we will completely be outnumbered. Home turf or not, they’re already on the attack.”

Aziraphale holds out his arm and Crowley takes it. “It’s good then, isn’t it, that the heir of Tophet is also the Omega Lord Fellthrop?”

“Don’t remind them of that while in striking distance,” Crowley grumbles.

“Just try and stay close to me,” Aziraphale reminds him.

They greet their unwelcome guests in the saloon. Lady and Omega Lord Burningstone with their host of children. Hastur and Ligur, Usher and Mary, and Dagon all troop into their home. Crowley takes a tentative step toward Aziraphale.

Hastur is all pent-up rage as he slouches into their space with a growl. His shoulders are rolled forward defensively.

“You both have got a lot of nerve,” he snarls.

Before he can add anything, Aziraphale’s low warning growl issues through the room. Suddenly, the Dame is there, glowering.

“Hastur!” Her tone instantly changes from warning to something overly-indulgent. “ _Precious_ , do be kind enough to thank your dear baby brother and his husband for their welcome into their lovely home.”

Crowley and Aziraphale share a knowing look between them, but lead the group into the drawing-room. As they move, Hastur growls low in his throat.

“I won’t lick any arses, Mother. They’ve stolen what is ours,” he swings round and steps aggressively toward them.

Protectively, Aziraphale guards them. Brian stands along the wall waiting to be needed, but he stares at the Lord of the Manor, whose teeth are bared and hackles are raised. Clearly, he’s never seen Aziraphale this worked up. Crowley is getting tired of seeing it, even if it is attractive.

Hastur takes another menacing step toward them. Aziraphale’s answering growl is threatening and deep. Hastur sees this as some sort of challenge and matches it.

“Enough of these histrionics,” the Dame snaps, smacking Hastur upside the head. “Get your act together before your father comes over to shout at you all acting like beasts.”

Her eyes take in the two Alphas. Anthony sighs from behind her and steps up to shake Aziraphale’s hand. It seems to help him relax, although he remains standing ramrod straight. The Dame watches this exchange before turning a knowing, dangerous grin toward Crowley.

“How _good_ of you to invite us for dinner, pet.”

Lady Burningstone clearly cannot see through his dark lenses, because she does not make proper eye contact. As she has not, Crowley is fairly certain she assumes him intimidated. If she knew him better, she would see that he is only on guard. He gives a sneering smile in return but offers his hand to Anthony.

“Hello, son,” he greets and Crowley has the wild inclination to kiss his cheek.

He leans forward and quickly kisses him in greeting, “Welcome back, Omba.”

Anthony is stunned. His eyes are wide. Theirs is not a family that greets so informally, but Crowley rather thinks that he and Anthony should be. He’s the only person in the Jayanthony’s who has ever wanted him—even if he is a liar on many fronts.

“Son,” Anthony manages to croak out.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, his eyes still sharp in warning, “Shall we take our guests into the drawing-room before dinner?”

Crowley nods. He waits until Aziraphale’s hand is safely pressed to the small of his back before he strides in that direction. Hastur tries to walk at their side, but suddenly stops. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has glared at him, but doesn’t bother to check.

The fire crackles merrily as Aziraphale guides Crowley to the seat closest to the fire. His embroidery hoop and work sit on the low table between the sofas waiting for him to pick it up again. He glances at it, then watches everyone else file in. Aziraphale lingers in front of the fireplace, guarding his mate, but aiming to look that he’s doing otherwise.

Ligur spies them and his lip drawn back in a frown. He glances at his mate, then snorts, and leans closer to Hastur’s side to whispers something. Usher holds Mary’s hand as she gushes over the room.

“Oh, Reverend Jayanthony, look what a fine drawing-room Crowley has. If only we might redo ours in the same style! Imagine if we had such fine curtains! Reverend Jayanthony, might we think of them in green not blue? Or perhaps something more like a fine yellow? Yellow is very fine—only the vicarage is nothing so grandiose. We would never install something so gaudy, of course,” she rambles.

Usher just nods at his bride and makes eyes at the decanter of whiskey on the back table. Anthony sits on the sofa opposite Crowley and smiles at him, warmly. Dagon saunters in and drops into the seat next to her father. She sprawls out, letting her knees spread so that she takes up more than on a cushion.

“Really, Dagon,” Anthony chastises.

She just grins at him. She lifts one trouser-clad leg up to rest her ankle on the opposite knee—thereby spreading out to take up more room on the sofa. Anthony rolls his eyes. Meanwhile, the Dame grabs Hastur by the biceps and drags him closer to her.She harshly whispers into his ear. He mutters something back and then glares at Crowley. Ligur, who has clearly heard this as well, looks between Crowley and Hastur.

“How is Lady Blanc?” Aziraphale asks the room, his eyes surveying everyone at once.

Ligur groans, “How do you think? She’s just lost her mate.”

Mary takes a deep breath, “My dear Lord Ligur, Lady Blanc is very taken with life. Why if she did not have Adam I would say that she would wither away. But with her beloved son, why she is a strong oak! She would—“

“Yes, thank you,” the Dame interrupts Mary’s spiel.

“Honestly, she’s doing better than I expected,” Anthony answers.

Crowley grimaces then looks around the room, taking all his relations and their movements in. Usher looks about for a place to sit before joining Crowley with a wide space between them. Mary sits next to him and turns to better face Crowley.

“And your baby? How is it you’ve had a baby so quickly? I mean it usually takes longer, yes? Was it divine? Have you—“

“You blessed idiot,” Dagon says with a roll of her eyes, “they’ve adopted.”

Mary blinks at her then looks back at Crowley. “You’re adopted?”

Hastur’s toothy grin turns on Crowley, evilly. “Good thing he doesn’t have any of your genes, brother. He wouldn’t have a straight spine.”

Aziraphale glares. Crowley reaches out and touches his husband’s hand. That was nothing worth responding to. When his family really gets going, that will be pale in comparison. Mary, on the other hand, is too confused to note the insult.

“But if you’re adopted, how can you inherit Tophet?”

Anthony frets and shifts in his seat, worrying at his long tail of hair. He pulls it over his shoulder and combs it through with his fingers.

“Mary,” Usher says with infinite patience, “Crowley will inherit because of some underhanded scheme.”

“Something we are here to discuss,” the Dame interjects, sweetly. “No doubt Omega Lord Burningstone committed this subterfuge to gain my attention—I have been a most neglectful Alpha.”

“My dove,” he says, addressing his wife, but she continues as if he had not spoken.

“As I seek to remedy that, I also hope to address this… injustice.”

Crowley is grateful for the gong but also regrets the interruption. Should they finish this chat now, perhaps they could be persuaded to leave without dining? All of his siblings head for the door, heedless that their hosts have not yet told them to make their way to the dining room.

Aziraphale offers his hand to his mate and Crowley takes it, eager to be close to him. He is surprised with Lady Burningstone offers the same to Anthony.

“My Samael, will you be my escort?” the Dame asks, sweetly.

Crowley is shocked. She has never used such a tone honestly before.

Anthony leans against his Alpha and presses his nose to her cheek. Immediately, she wraps her arm around his waist and tugs him closer. Ignoring all the others in the room, he nuzzles under her chin and up her jaw to her ear.

“I would be delighted, my dove,” he says against her cheek.

Crowley expects his mother to rear back and reprimand her Omega. Instead, she issues a deep rumble and kisses Anthony’s forehead.

“Oh, Tony,” she whispers.

Crowley stares. His disbelief is plain to see. Aziraphale elbows him none-too-gently in the side.

“Close your mouth,” he mutters under his breath. “You’ll catch flies.”

Crowley hurries to comply and they lead his parents out of the drawing-room and into supper. The table is laid as Crowley requested—comfortable, as if for the family and not for a dinner party. Dagon sniffs when she sees it, but Crowley glides past her delighted. She has noted the slight.

Aziraphale pulls out his chair and sits beside him, convention be damned. Mary sits at Crowley’s left with Anthony at Aziraphale’s other side. While their elbow partners are pleasant, this means Crowley has to look at Hastur, Ligur, and Dagon. He resists glaring.

The footmen hurry in and pour the wine. The Dame clears her throat when she sees Crowley’s glass filled. He looks at her with lips pursed and eyebrow arched over his glasses.

“Anything the matter, Mother?” he asks, raising the glass to his lips and sipping. “Mmm, an excellent choice, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggles in his seat, “I am very fond of that vintage. Perhaps someday we might travel to Italy and see the vineyards for ourselves.”

Crowley smiles, indulgently. “Would you stomp grapes in your bare toes, angel?”

Aziraphale chuckles, but before he can reply, Hastur interjects. “We were talking of Tophet and how you’ve stolen it from us.”

Crowley grimaces and takes another swallow of wine. “I have done no such thing. My inheritance was as much a surprise to my husband and me as it were to you.”

The soup is served and Anthony stares into his bowl anxiously. Crowley lifts his spoon and takes a delicate taste.

“You’ll like this, angel,” he determines.

Aziraphale takes a taste and hums, delighted. “Oh, yes. Cook has outdone herself.”

“Back to Tophet,” Dagon prods.

“I don’t see why you’re worried anyhow,” Crowley asks, aiming for devil-may-care. “You aren’t going to inherit it.”

Dagon holds her spoon poised over her bowl. For a split second, Crowley thinks that she might throw it at him.

“I will take one of the cottages, in case you’ve forgotten. It is my birthright to stay on the land,” she snarls.

“And who is to say that we won’t inherit it?” Usher continues, stirring his spoon absently in his soup. “You have terrible health. You could die any day.”

Aziraphale growls in warning, a low drone, like a cornered cat. Crowley reaches under the table and touches his mate’s knee.

“Easy, Alpha,” he mutters. “They’re only getting started.”

This actually surprises his husband enough to make his growl stutter to a stop. He glances, shocked, at Crowley. The Omega pats his knee again and resumes eating his soup.

Anthony clears his throat, but speaks without looking up from his dinner, “Then the estate will pass to his children, as is right.”

“Samael, my only,” the Dame argues, “what of Adam? He is Lucifer’s child and the rightful keeper of Tophet.”

Anthony looks at his wife sideways. “Bee, what will be left for the child to inherit? To dispatch your debts we will have to break up the estate—“

“What?” Usher, Dagon, and Hastur all shout simultaneously.

“—and sell off plots. I fear that our tenant farmers will all be cast out of their homes. This is the only way we can repay those debts.”

The Dame hums, displeased. “But the estate itself could still be Adam’s. It could stay in the family.”

“I will stay in the family,” Anthony argues.

“It will pass out of the Jayanthony’s grasp!” Dagon snarls.

“I feel it’s fair,” Aziraphale argues, his eyes sharp. “With our growing family, our second child will take Tophet. What luck our family will have with two great houses to our line.”

The Dame turns on them with keen interest, “ _Growing_ family? I was under the impression that you were unable to father children, Lord Fellthrop.”

Aziraphale does not so much as blink. Crowley swallows and tries to make his face reflect the lie when his husband says, “It seems you were misled.”

The Dame’s eyes widen fractionally, in surprise. Anthony, on the other hand, explodes with joy.

“Crowley! Son! Congratulations! And Aziraphale, you wonder of wonders! Many happy returns!” he cries, eyes wet.

Azirapahle shrinks back marginally. His untruth will hurt Anthony and he seems to know it. Crowley presses his knee against his mate’s and smiles genuinely.

“Thank you, Omba.”

Before this can become any more confusing, Hastur brings them back to the task.

“You’re not even Omba’s son, yet you got his money!” he continues, grabbing his wine glass. “You are getting a stipend _and_ Tophet!”

Crowley looks away.

“Hastur, that isn’t fair. His share was spent! Tophet is in repayment. Besides, you were gifted an annuity as well. You’ve used your share!” Anthony says.

“Bullshit! _They_ used my share to cover their debts! And spent Beelzebub’s! And Dagon’s! _And_ Usher’s! Why is the twin’s bit any different? Why should he get his repaid when ours has burnt away and forgotten?”

Dagon slams her spoon down on the table, “Plus, you’re saying this as if he’s got more right to the money because his account held more cash. His annuity was both his and Ashtoreth’s portions. That’s not fair!”

“Exactly!” Usher agrees, equally angered.

Crowley empties his wine glass and looks around for Shadwell to refill it. Tonight will require a good deal of wine. As he shifts to seek out the footman, he sees that Aziraphale’s lip is drawn back, exposing his canines.

“You should give it up,” Usher says, decisively. “At least spit your portion and Ashtoreth’s between us four—sign over some of the properties to us to do with as we see fit.”

“You’d leave Beelzebub out of this?” Mary asks. “They should get some money too!”

Her husband growls at her in warning and Mary sinks back into her chair. Hastur stirs at his soup viciously, then pulls a blue snuff-box from his pocket. He stands and moves to the sideboard.

“Beelzebub is making their own fortune, just like the Omega over there. We shouldn’t have to split with them,” he retorts sniffing.

Dramatically, he rounds on the table holds the snuffbox up as if it were a wineglass held for a toast to his youngest brother. He does it in such a way that it’s over his head more like an offering. “Here you are, Raja Sahib,” he says with the same sarcastic, overdone air. “Our existence is in your hands.”

Crowley averts his gaze. Aziraphale growls in warning. Hastur whirls back around to take his snuff. The footmen inch away and Hastur leans on the buffet table. The wine in the decanters rocks as he does so. Hastur storms back to the table and drops into his seat. Aziraphale draws their attention back by speaking.

Without changing his expression, Aziraphale says, “Since we are already discussing this, I must say, I have no control over this estate. You see, I’ve already reached out to my solicitors and those of Omega Lord Burningstone. As Lady Burningstone has been the one to sign over this property, there is no going back. Unless, of course, you were willing to buy it back from Omega Lord Fellthrop.”

He says this all so delicately as if he’s chatting about the weather. Crowley bites the insides of his mouth to keep from smiling but looks at his father in curiosity.

The Dame sighs dramatically and pulls Anthony’s hand into her lap, nearly spilling his soup. “You best tell them, Tony.”

“Well, yes. The situation is simple,” he hesitates before speaking in a rush, “Your mama is in quite a financial state; worse than I had suspected. I simply borrowed the money in Crowley’s annuity against Tophet—“

At these words Dagon, Usher, and Hastur all groan. “No, Omba!”

“—The debts were profound and Tophet was already in danger of being lost to our family—“ Anthony continues.

Usher throws up his hands and groans loudly. Brian, the closest footman, grabs the wine decanter and rushes to his empty glass. He fills Usher’s glass, assuming this will help settle him. He makes a turn around the table and fills Crowley’s as well. As he does, the Omega gestures that his husband’s glass is low as well. Brian quickly remedies this.

As he does, Dagon berates Anthony, “You don’t understand just how much money is sunk into her gambling debts, do you? Do you know that we sold off property to pay them back? The London house—gone. The seaside retreat—sold!”

While she rails, Usher tosses back his entire glass of wine in one swallow.

“And those are just the gambling debts,” she continues as Usher sputters and coughs.

“My dear Reverend Jayanthony,” Mary worries, “you must not inhale your wine so!”

Usher coughs again, “I say, Fellthrop, this wine is sweeter than this course calls for!”

Hastur looks annoyed and grumbles, “It’s not like you had more wine from the decanter. You’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale listens to Dagon’s rather spectacular rant and has not heard what Crowley’s brothers are discussing. Crowley, on the other hand, suddenly focuses on them. Aziraphale reaches for his wine glass and curls his fingers around the stem.

“You know I did. You saw me just get served some. Why?”

Hastur turns an interesting shade of red, “Because you idiot, that was the ‘white’ for Crowley—“

Aziraphale is still lifting the glass to his mouth when Crowley swats it away. The glass upends wine all over the table and Aziraphale’s chest before crashing onto the table and breaking. Shadwell is already rushing over. But Crowley jumps up and yanks Aziraphale to his feet.

“Did you just try to poison my mate?” he growls, low and dangerous.

Every ounce of self-control he’s ever had falls away. Mary glances around, before settling on her husband.

“Usher?” she shrieks, jumping up.

Usher has turned a strange shade of white and bloody foam bubbles from his mouth. All at once, everyone seems to have realized that Hastur has poisoned Usher. Mary rushes around the table and tries to shove a spoon down his throat to make him vomit. Dagon is repeatedly hitting Hastur over the head. In turn, Ligur is trying to pry her off. The Dame is screaming at all of them. Aziraphale grabs Crowley around the waist.

“Angel, this is not to the plan,” Crowley worries.

“Exactly. They’re going to turn on us; I want you out of harm’s way.”

With that, he pulls Crowley past the drama that is unfolding. Crowley glances at Anthony, but the Omega is unable to focus. He sits, sobbing and rocking in his chair.

“My babies,” he cries until the Dame grabs him roughly by the scruff of the neck.

Aziraphale does not let Crowley see anymore. He hurries him to the staircase.

“Upstairs, _now_ ,” his Alpha orders.

From the dining room, Mary begins to scream and cry. Hastur exits it carrying his brother. Dagon is hot on her heels.

“What do you mean you didn’t bring the anti-dote?” she screams, hitting him over the head again.

“I figured we wanted him dead! Why would I need to stop that?” he shouts in return.

“Why me?” Usher burbles.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Hastur growls in return.

Ligur races ahead of them and grabs an armload of their cloaks then throws open the front door. The four race outside, leaving the front door banging open. Mary, sobbing hysterically, stumbles after.

The Dame, holding Anthony tightly to her side, exits with more grace and poise. Anthony holds his handkerchief to his face, but he’s yelling at Lady Burningstone.

“Did you know about this?” he cries.

“Anthony— _Tony_ —I swear to you: no, I did not,” she answers in a sob, her eyes dewy with tears. “We’ve just lost Lucifer—oh Lord.”

They hold one another as they exit the house. Shadwell hurries after them and latches the doors. Crowley, from the base of the stairs, considers that it is the kindest he’s ever seen his mother act.

“All their lies have wrecked themselves,” Aziraphale says softly, “foundered on the rocks of iniquity. They have brought this upon themselves.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and sinks to sit on the step. “Yes, it’s a cockup, angel. But it’s also our problem because they’re not our tenants.”

He should feel growing sorrow. Usher was the next closest in age to himself. He should have known him better.

“You think that was how they planned to have me blinded and paralyzed?” Crowley asks. “With that poison?”

“Poison. I cannot fathom it— _poison_ , in our home,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley pulls off his sunglasses and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “Angel,” he says, “you think Cook will send our dinner up into our den?”

Aziraphale reaches for his hand and tugs him up to standing, “Shadwell, could you make that happen? I think we all need a quiet night.”

The butler nods and the mates climb the steps. 

“I know the room is not finished,” Aziraphale says, “but I think we should spend the night in our new den.”

Crowley nods in agreement, “I’ll go fetch Samuel?”

Aziraphale kisses his Omega mark at his temple. “You saved my life, my love.”

Crowley squeezes his Alpha to his side. He finds that he is trembling, “They are no longer allowed in this house. None of them. None of them can be trusted.”

Azirapahle hums and kisses his Omega mark again, “As you wish.”

* * *

Many weeks pass. The Christmas season at Zionview Grove is a riot below stairs. The servants are having a merry time playing charades, dancing reels, and giggling under the mistletoe. These twelve days are their freedom and payment for many days of hard work. Of course, the current Marquess and his husband are little work compared to a houseful of people. Unlike previous titleholders, they have no guests, nor are they planning to entertain. Their holiday is quiet. They are set up in the library sipping whiskey and idly playing chess while their son rocks in a wooden cradle at their feet. They did not even request a yule log.

Currently, the Dowager and Uriel are visiting one of the latter’s cousins for the holiday in Bath. It’s an unseasonable time to visit, but the Dowager assures them that Uriel improves as she takes the waters. Aziraphale turns the letter to read the cross print and continues to summarize for his husband.

“It seems that my mother is being paid court by some Barrister,” he notes. “She finds him most agreeable except for, and I quote, ‘the foul reek of fish which emanates most wretchedly from his wrists’.”

Crowley snickers and sips his whiskey, “That is terrible on so many counts. Can you imagine being scented with fish?”

His Alpha rumbles from across the chessboard and looks at him with a merry twinkle in his eye from over his spectacles. “My dear, whenever I even think about scenting I smell pine forest. You’ve quite ruined me for complimenting any other scent.”

Crowley delights in this knowledge and purrs contentedly. His foot finds his mate’s under the table and he hooks his ankle around Aziraphale’s.

“Any other news from Bath?” he asks over his own purr.

Aziraphale’s eyes continue to twinkle besottedly before he returns to the page before him. “Admiral Witerbee called upon them again. My mother laments the connection but cannot find a way to break it.”

“You need to write your mother and advise her. Julia Witerbee is ancient, rich, and lonely without Anthony. Either the Dowager or Uriel needs to snap her up before she kicks the bucket. She has no heirs. She will probably live like their sister; she’d break a hip if she tried to knot one of them,” Crowley teases.

“Good Lord, Crowley. Please don’t make me imagine my mother and the word knotting,” he says primly, waving the letter at his blushing face.

Crowley leans back in his chair, slouching. He sips his whiskey and tilts one of the rooks this way and that. “I could use my name and the word knotting in the same sentence if it includes you tonight.”

Aziraphale pauses his fanning and considers this. “I thought you were opposed to such dalliances with Samuel in the nest with us.”

“‘Dalliances’? ‘ _Dalliances_ ’? Angel, you’re my husband. If this is a ‘dalliance’ then you’ve gone about it all wrong.”

Aziraphale chuckles and drinks another sip of his whiskey before moving a pawn and returning to his sideways-letter-reading.

“Bath is full of diversions, it seems, and my mother has bought an entire wardrobe,” Aziraphale finishes before he sets the letter aside and removing his spectacles. “That’s about the size of it.”

Crowley glares at the chessboard, but hums in acknowledgment. He could play in three different ways, but each one would give Aziraphale the upper hand. His husband rises from his seat and leaves his now-empty whiskey tumbler by the decanter. He selects his silver snuffbox from his pocket and goes through the very dramatic steps of tapping, opening, pinching, sniffing, and sneezing his tobacco. Crowley rolls his eyes as Aziraphale dabs at his nose with a handkerchief.

“ _Disgusting_ , angel. Just smoke a pipe, would you?” he grumbles, trying not to think about a snuffbox that nearly killed Aziraphale.

To distract himself, he sacrifices a bishop. He tells the piece, “Go with God, I suppose.”

Aziraphale rejoins him, his nose still twitching from the tobacco dust, “Smoking a pipe is _antediluvian_ , my dear.” He dabs his nose again and looks over the board. “Aha!”

With his exclamation of excitement, he puts Crowley into check. Which makes his mate groan in frustration. Overall, they’re fairly matched. Tonight, Aziraphale, his toffee-nosed husband, is making quick work of him. He pouts at the board and looks for a play. Judging by the smirk that graces his mate’s face, he’s already lost. He tosses back at the rest of his drink.

“Have you read Anthony’s letter yet?” Aziraphale asks, looking knowingly at the sealed letter laying on the table beside his elbow.

Crowley exhales slowly and lifts the letter. He breaks the seal and unfolds it neatly. He takes another deep breath before looking at the words.

“Read it then,” Aziraphale encourages with another wipe to his nose.

Crowley blinks slowly and clears his throat. He reads:

_Dear son,_

_Thank you for your letter from 20 December. We are all in excellent health and hope things remain the same with you. Dagon has left home for further adventures in Scotland. She sent a lavender mead by post this past week. Lady B and I quite enjoyed it._

_I thank you for your continued concern about my finances and my future. With your sale of the parcels of land, I have paid off your mother’s debts—partially. I convinced Lady B to economize further, which has been a struggle for her. With the sale and these savings, we have paid off her longest-held debts. How embarrassing to owe such a sum to the very Prince Regent’s household itself! Indeed, the payment is complete and Princess Snuffy has sent us her card._

_This would be cause for celebration if not for the trappings of grief that linger in Tophet. Indeed, it is a sad time in our home. I will not ask you to grieve for your brothers. I do feel great guilt regarding them both, however. How much of their behavior and actions could have avoided had I been here? We shall never know. That will haunt me all my days. I hope to better Hastur and Dagon as best I can._

_Lord Adam and I have begun a correspondence as we observe the year. He is a good lad. I went to visit him, as I mentioned in my last letter. We spent many hours together playing cribbage, and if the weather was fine: shuttlecock or nine pins. He does not much care for his grandfather’s house, but Lord Chalky-Weiss is fond of him._

_Blanc is sent back to her father’s house as Lady B believes the old saying “an Omega without a mate will return hence”. Mary too is gone from Tophet. It is quiet without them._

_And, indeed, I am a fool. I stayed away from my wife for years as a punishment for the wrongs she had done to her family. Now, I am returned, the prodigal Omega. Unlike the son in that story, my return is what will bring the right—I can correct your mother’s behaviors. It will take a stern hand on the finances and careful distraction from gambling, but I believe it can be done. Indeed I know that it is right that you shall inherit Tophet and I will ensure it is something to be proud of._

_I pray you to stay well and warm this season. Give my love to your mate and your pup._

_Merry Christmas and all my love, your father,_

_Omba/Anthony_

He drops the letter on top of his chess pieces and leans down to scoop his three-month-old from his new wooden cot. Samuel is sleep-lax and warm. He kisses his downy, dark hair and lays him across his chest. Samuel’s tiny hand opens and clutches Crowley’s neckline in his sleep.

It’s a comfort to have his little one so near. He wonders if Anthony thinks the same when he gathers one of his children close. By the same token, he worries that Anthony curses Crowley’s name when he remembers that Lucifer is dead. Does he also curse Hastur when he thinks of Usher?

No court of law was interested in prosecuting Omega Lord Fellthrop in Lucifer’s death. It seemed they already knew all about the Jayanthony’s financial dramas and their curious ways of repaying their debts. They had no interest in seeking justice for Lord Lucifer Jayanthony and his gambling madness. Blanc and Adam will have no justice.

Fortunately, Hastur was charged with Usher’s murder. Mary’s justice, however, is slow in coming, as Hastur must pay her to ease her burden. It’s a silly punishment as the world seems to gossip freely about their family’s money troubles.

“I think I’ll go up,” he says softly, standing.

“My dear?” Aziraphale asks worriedly.

Crowley holds Samuel with one hand and Aziraphale’s concerns away with the other.

“Don’t ring down and break up their fun. I can manage,” Crowley says already moving to leave the drawing-room.

“Wait. Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale says, hurrying after him. “I did not mean to upset you, my dear.” He glances back at the letter, then takes his Omega’s elbow in his hand. “Stay with me a while longer, darling. Come back to the sofa.”

“It’s all right, Aziraphale. I’m going to go up. He needs to get put to bed anyway. I’ll see you when you’re ready—read your book. I’ll see you later, angel.”

He pulls away from his husband with a backward smile.

“Very well,” Aziraphale answers, regretfully. “I’ll just be a moment myself.”

“You? Alone with a book? I doubt it,” Crowley jokes as he steps into the dark saloon.

Below his feet, his staff is dancing or playing blind man’s bluff. He climbs the staircase and listens to it creak with each step. It blends with Samuel’s soft breathing. The stairwell and hallway are dark, but he knows his way now. He could do it half-asleep if he needed to.

Their den, the Lord of the Manor’s suite, is complete and homey. He pushes open the door to his dressing room and latches it behind him. He lays his son on the boudoir couch and surrounds his sleeping form with pillows. Then Crowley moves to the dressing table and sits on the bench to remove his coral necklace, gloves, scent cuffs, and hair combs. His auburn curs tumble down as the pins are removed. He brushes it out carefully and plaits it into a loose braid. He reaches for his nightcap, then pauses.

Thoughtfully, he undoes the plait again. He purses his lips and turns his head. The candle on the dressing table catches the long, pale scar that runs across his trachea.

“Nothing to be done about that,” he mutters.

He removes his suit, piece-by-piece. Each part of the garment he lays on the stool. He considers his nightshirt and his dressing-gown that are laid out on the dresser, then glances back at his red mane.

“Something else,” he says before going to the bureau and hunting for a long-ago purchased satin nightgown.

It’s slinky and lavender with a paired dressing gown. He slips it on and admires the way it hugs his body. The lace is dainty, but sexy. Pleased, he dons the matching dressing gown as well.

Finally, he unwraps Samuel to change his clout and plicher. The cold makes the baby blink his dark eyes. He stretches and grumbles, still too asleep to cry.

“I’ll get you settled in just a moment, little beast,” he replies sliding Samuel’s gown back over his arms and head.

Once the baby is wrapped in his two layers of blankets, Crowley lifts him and blows out the toilet candles in the dressing room. They enter the den through the door in the dressing room. Crowley latches it behind him, then moves through the room checking the locks. Aziraphale will change in his dressing room and use his key to enter the den then.

“It’s over-taxed nerves,” Sir Gaiman, the apothecary, had informed him, “on account of the attacks. It will fade in time.”

Unlike Doctor Nutter, Sir Gaiman did not encourage a medication as Crowley was nursing. Instead, the apothecary encouraged him to lock the doors if it made him feel safer. Aziraphale does not seem to mind, which is something.

Crowley eases into the rocking chair by the fireplace and adjusts his garments to feed Samuel. A thick, knit blanket lays across the seat. He pulls it over them both and rocks slowly while he feeds his son. The chair was a housewarming gift from Anthony. Crowley can’t help but frown when he thinks of his father.

It’s a strange relationship. For one, they are some strange mirror to him and Samuel. An Omba raising someone else’s biological child. Yet, much like Anthony, Crowley would do anything for his son.

He is just settling Samuel on his other teat when he hears Aziraphale in his dressing room. He takes his time to get into his nightclothes and turn his key in the lock. He enters their den with a candle and locks the door behind him.

“Are you warm enough, my dear boys?” he asks as he walks to Crowley’s side.

He reaches under the blanket and touches Samuel’s tiny forehead with his fingers. The baby grunts as he eats, but his eyelashes flutter and he looks up at his Papa. Aziraphale smiles at him, adoringly, then lets his touch skim up Crowley’s chest to his cheek.

“You feel a little cool. Would you like another blanket?” he asks.

“Don’t trouble yourself, angel. I’ll be in bed in just a few moments. You can warm me up then,” Crowley replies, turning his head to kiss Aziraphale’s palm.

“I look forward to it,” Aziraphale agrees, taking his candle to his bedside.

Aziraphale scents the canopy foot post as he passes it to turn down the covers on the bed. Next, he is busy with the bed curtains. Satisfied, he checks the windows for drafts and then climbs into their nest. It’s his habit every night. They each have their way of dealing with their traumas.

Crowley feels his breast empty and he lifts Samuel up to burp him. It’s a process of getting all his layers back over his chest. Samuel is reasonably patient most nights and tonight is no exception. He gives a series of pleased belches and stretches, turning his head to look at the banked fire.

“You ready to get into our nest, then?” he asks, standing and setting the blanket in the chair for later.

Samuel gives a series of short vowel sounds, which sound delighted. His eyes are bright and happy and he gives his Omba a gummy smile. Crowley holds him close as they walk to their bed. Aziraphale has left one curtain open for Crowley to easily slip into. He holds up the duvet and then freezes, surprised when he sees Crowley’s attire.

“Oh, my,” he whispers.

Crowley chuckles and holds out Samuel to him.

Aziraphale takes him with a grin, trying to balance his attention between the two, “Hello, my lad. How was your snack?”

Samuel replies cheerfully with a series of chirrups. Crowley smiles, listening with pleasure to this, as he slips into the bed. He keeps on the dressing gown—Aziraphale deserves a show when the baby is asleep.

Aziraphale unwraps Samuel from his swaddling and lays him on his chest. The baby turns his head to see Crowley and grumbles about his time on his tummy.

“Where is your doll, my lad?” Aziraphale asks, patting around blindly for the soft toy he brought Samuel weeks ago.

Crowley sits up and hunts for the wool doll. It’s near the foot of the bed, rolled in one of the blankets. Crowley retrieves it and notes that it badly needs to be laundered again. It’s becoming a weekly-washed item.

“Angel, here’s Lord Dimples,” he says as he hands the doll to Aziraphale.

Lord Dimples is the reason that Aziraphale is never allowed to name anything ever again, as far as Crowley is concerned. Samuel seems far less concerned and turns his head to see it. Crowley smiles and reclines on the pillows to watch them play.

“Would you like Papa to tell you a story?” Aziraphale asks, shaking Lord Dimples in Samuel’s line of sight.

The baby coos for a few minutes and takes Lord Dimples in his fist. He listens to Aziraphale’s rumbling story while smelling the pear and honey-drenched air of their nest. Warm, happy cedar mingles with it, making their den feel more welcoming than before.

Story complete, Aziraphale bundles Samuel up anew and tucks him into his swinging Moses basket. He lays another blanket across it, then gives it a little push.

While Aziraphale’s back is turned, Crowley unties his dressing gown and slips it from his shoulders. He allows it to puddle under him and he stretches out, cocking up one knee and pulling the fabric down his leg so it is exposed.

Aziraphale turns and stops. He licks his lips and his eyes draw down the length of his body. The candlelight has turned the inside of their bed into warm oranges and makes his nightgown shine.

“It seems that it’s the season for celebrating,” Crowley says, letting his purr roll out. “And I seem to remember that I had a most attentive Alpha before we became parents. I wonder if he might be pressed into service once more?”

Aziraphale crawls on his knees up the bed, his eyes dark with lust. He pulls off his ridiculous nightcap and tosses it aside.

“Would my Omega enjoy that?” he growls, low and warm.

Crowley tosses his head so that his hair falls over his shoulder and exposes his long line of neck. Heat is pooling in his stomach and he feels a curious tingle between his legs. It’s been a long time since he’d felt that.

“I would enjoy a good seeing to,” he admits, reaching up with one hand and easing the strap off his shoulder with one finger. “If you are interested.”

Aziraphale traces the path where his finger had just traveled. “Exceedingly.”

His lips follow his finger and the moment they touch skin, Crowley feels lit from the inside. He tosses back his head for a second time and groans. He’d forgotten—how had he forgotten?—what a decedent lover his mate was.

Aziraphale trails kisses down Crowley’s arm until he meets the strap of his nightgown. There, he brushes his nose against his bicep.

“What is the likelihood that Samuel will go to sleep and let us have some private time?” he asks at a rumble.

“Fairly unlikely,” Crowley admits.

He touches Aziraphale’s cheek and brings his mouth up to meet him in a kiss. Aziraphale surges forward and presses Crowley onto his back. He deepens the kiss and reaches down to stroke his hand up Crowley’s bent leg. His hand slides over Crowley’s knee and pushes the nightgown further up as his palm continues its path. Crowley moans, wantonly. His mate is only touching his leg. He should not be this undone by so simple of a touch.

“I would like to take you apart,” Aziraphale whispers, kissing down Crowley’s throat. “Touch and mark each part of you as I used to, but I think we may have to hurry.”

Crowley presses his foot into the bed and lifts his body up. Surprised, Aziraphale’s hand slips further under the nightgown and cups Crowley’s hip.

“Then you better get to it,” Crowley growls, tilting up to press his suddenly hard cock to Aziraphale’s stomach.

Aziraphale grins and shoves the nightgown up. It’s rucked around Crowley’s stomach still hiding his torso. Aziraphale shifts down and, before Crowley can process what is happening, engulfs his cock in his mouth. Crowley hisses and arches his back. Weeks of parenthood have left his body tired and sore. Additionally, with all the fears they’ve experienced, he’s had no interest in sex. He’s just wanted to feel safe.

As Aziraphale laps at the vein on the underside of his cock, however, he questions how this was never an option before. Already he can feel his testicles tightening up and his skin feels oversensitive spikes.

“Angel!” he warns. “I’m going to—“

Aziraphale pulls off him, his eyebrows raised. “Already?” he says surprised.

Crowley collapses back onto the bed. “Well, you did say hurry.”

Aziraphale chuckles and kisses his hipbone. “So I did.”

He pulls his nightshirt over his head and Crowley’s purr deepens. The smell of resin twirls in his scent oil. He bites his lower lip and moans.

“Angel,” he says, his voice laden with want.

“Yes, my darling love,” Aziraphale whispers, capturing his mouth in another scorching kiss. “Do you need me to claim you? Mount you? Knot you?”

“Yes,” Crowley pants, nearly whining. “Please, yes.”

“My sweet Omega,” Aziraphale growls, grabbing Crowley’s hips and shifting him on the bed again. “I will, my darling.”

He pushes Crowley’s legs up to his chest, “Hold these.”

Crowley hurries to comply, grasping the undersides of his knees and pulling his legs open. Aziraphale growls, that deep chuffing rumble that he uses when they’re together, as he looks Crowley over. He must look a sight with his nightgown around his middle and his face flushed.

Aziraphale bends over him and they kiss, heatedly, while Aziraphale’s hands wander. He touches Crowley’s stomach, then traces his fingers up to his small breasts. He rounds his nipple and flicks it with his thumb before drawing his hand lower again. He takes Crowley’s cock in his hand and strokes him slowly. Crowley pants into his mouth, but Aziraphale just continues to kiss him. His hand slides away and grabs the globe of his ass. His finger drags down Crowley’s cleft.

“Mm, I had thought that a breastfeeding Omega did not make slick,” he rumbles, nipping Crowley’s lower lip.

His finger circles Crowley’s entrance and spreads the slick he finds there around Crowley’s rim. “I believe those must be incorrect stories.”

He presses inside his husband and Crowley throws his head back with a keen. He’s tighter than he’s been in a long while and Aziraphale’s finger feels huge. His mate must know it, for he circles his rim carefully, stretching him with each tug and thrust.

He kisses Crowley again, letting their tongues tangle. Crowley sighs as Aziraphale presses in again. “Are you enjoying that, my love?”

“Yes,” Crowley hisses, the word stretching out. “Alpha, _please_.”

A second finger breaches him and he wails.

“Please, what, my love?” Azirapahle teases, kissing him again.

His fingers twist. Crowley groans and Aziraphale cups his face, lifting his chin to kiss him deeper. Before Crowley can react, a third finger joins the others and he howls into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale eases them back out, flicks his tongue across Crowley’s, then thrusts them back in. Crowley sobs, barely keeping a hold on his legs as they spasm and kick.

“Would you like another?” Aziraphale asks, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Would you like my entire hand in you, spreading you? Kneading you and reforming you from the inside?”

Crowley sobs and shivers, bucking upward without any goal in mind. Aziraphale thrusts his three fingers forward again and rubs them in a tight circle, touching every inch of Crowley’s channel walls. Crowley cries out again, before pressing back on his husband’s hand.

“Please, please, please,” he begs.

Aziraphale, with dark, hungry eyes, swallows his pleading with passionate kisses. His other hand traces down Crowley’s neck, his entire palm covering his mate’s throat. He stops when he reaches Crowley’s mating mark. Suddenly, he surges up onto his knees and settles against Crowley.

“Yes, I’ll give you what you want,” he says, removing his fingers.

He grabs a pillow and settles it under Crowley’s hips, then lines up his cock. With one thrust of his hips, he slips inside and Crowley throws back his head, arches his back, and wails. It might have been intended to be a word, but it’s just a sound now. His world is his mate’s steel heat inside him and his soft body arching over him. Azirapahle pulls back with a groan and slams home again, his eyes falling shut in pleasure.

“Crowley, you’re so tight. You’re so wonderful,” he whispers, before sliding out and fucking forward in one long, strong thrust.

It nearly moves Crowley on the bed. He can only moan and shiver, taking everything his Alpha gives him. Aziraphale braces himself with one hand on the bed next to Crowley’s head and the other clutching his hip. There is no slow love-making. They’re already past any hope of that. As Aziraphale fucks into him at the brutal pace, Crowley finds it’s all he wants. He is already slipping away, letting his mate be in charge.

He gives a soft cry and exposes his throat, submitting with more joy than he can express. Aziraphale’s mouth is there on that skin immediately, nipping and sucking. Already Crowley can feel his husband’s knot growing, but it’s an absent thought. Aziraphale will sort this out. He lets himself drift on the sensations, feeling his mate fill him and touch him.

Aziraphale’s lips ghost his claim mark and he can’t help but whine desperately. He wants it so badly, to be knotted and claimed again. It’s been so long.

“Yes, Omega, yes, my sweet Omega,” Aziraphale promises, scraping his teeth across the scarred bundle of nerves. “Very soon, darling.”

Already his knot is pushing against Crowley’s rim, begging for entrance.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley agrees, welcoming it.

As if this permission was what it required, his rim loosens, and Aziraphale slips a little further inside. Crowley wails with pleasure, feeling stretched and owned. Aziraphale moans with this thrust, his body already shining with perspiration.

“I’m going to take you now,” he warns, his breath hot on Crowley’s shoulder.

The Omega can do nothing but let go and bare his throat. With Aziraphale’s next thrust, his knot is inside Crowley and it presses on his prostate. He’s so close to coming.

“Alpha!” he cries and Aziraphale’s hips jump, his teeth bite, and Crowley comes.

It’s a haze of absolute bliss. He’s on fire. He’s exploding. He’s blissfully unaware of anything but his Alpha’s near-frantic rutting inside him. The knot ties them together, but Aziraphale is still bucking, forcing himself deeper. His tongue laves at the scar and his teeth dig deeper. Then, like a wave, Aziraphale is lodged in him, his cock shooting his seed deep inside Crowley. He moans and his Alpha answers him, breathily.

Azirapahle collapses but manages to rearrange them. Crowley just lets himself drift. He mews, blissfully with each deposit of spend in him.

“My lovely, lovely boy. My perfect treasure,” Aziraphale praises, rolling them onto his back.

He tucks Crowley under his chin and pulls the duvet over them. The knot holds them in place and Crowley lets himself rest. His world is cedar and pears—resin and Port. He moans again, desperately, and tries to wiggle down onto Aziraphale’s cock. His Alpha grunts and takes him by the hips.

“None of that, you’ll hurt us,” he reprimands, gently. “Do you need more, my love?”

Crowley can only cry out, wordless and lost. He’s already as close as he can get to his mate, but it’s not enough. He bends forward, his mouth latching onto Aziraphale’s pectoral and biting down himself. Aziraphale yelps and thrusts forward, deeper. Like every time before them, each little deposit of seed is an orgasm. The knot expands each time, stretching Crowley a little more. He sucks at the bite on Azirapahle’s chest, groaning with delight.

“What a treasure you are,” Aziraphale whispers, rubbing Crowley’s back and groaning as the knot expands again. “What a wonderful Omega.”

Crowley turns his cheek to rest on Aziraphale’s chest. He drifts and purrs, only pausing to sigh with pleasure as another hot expand surges between them.

He must sleep, for when he next opens his eyes, the candle is burned down and Aziraphale is sliding out from under him.

“Let me clean you up,” he whispers, moving for a flannel.

Samuel clicks and grunts, working up to a good cry of hunger. Crowley lays on his stomach, feeling his husband’s seed flowing out of him, and sighs with pleasure. It’s the most settled he’s felt in weeks.

Aziraphale gently swipes between his legs, dipping between his cheeks to touch his hole. His fingers linger at his rim, brushing the red, wrinkled flesh reverently.

“So lovely,” he whispers, before bending down to kiss the small of Crowley’s back.

He wipes off his thighs and then Crowley’s cock and stomach, before cleaning himself. Crowley watches him return the flannel, then extinguish one of the candles. He fluffs the pillows and helps his mate sit up. He pulls the nightgown down over his thighs, before helping Crowley bring the top of it down. Aziraphale, chuffing multiple times with his pleasure, takes Samuel from the basket and gives him to his mate.

“Here’s a hungry little earl,” the Alpha teases, watching the baby take to Crowley’s breast.

“Hopefully you took notes,” Crowley says to the babe on his chest. “Your own mate should be as sated as your Papa has made me.”

Aziraphale puts his nightshirt on once more, then begins to prepare the bed for sleep. He tucks Crowley in. He joins his husband under the duvet and watches him and Samuel in the candlelight. Crowley’s purr is a soft thing. He watches Samuel suckle, then looks over at his mate.

“I love you, Aziraphale,” he says, honestly.

His mate blinks, his eyes suddenly bright, “And I you, my darling.”

“I want to give Tophet to Adam,” he says suddenly. “With the understanding that once the transfer is made, I want no contact with my mother or siblings.”

Aziraphale sits up on his elbow. “Are you certain?”

Crowley considers the tiny babe in his arms. His eyes drift around their large suite in their grand home. Finally, he looks at the beloved face of his Alpha.

“This is more than I ever hoped for, angel. I expected to die a spinster, but not a very old one. You have given me more than I could ever hope for: friendship, acceptance, love, as well as a home and a family. I want nothing further to do with them. Tell them that I give them Tophet as my bride price. Tell them that if they ever so much as think of separating us again, I will…”

Here the words dry up. If Tophet is theirs once more, then he has no way to protect his family. Aziraphale sits up and kisses his mouth softly.

“I will have it written up so that Tophet becomes Adam’s when he is twenty-one. No one else can take ownership from him. Should he pass away before that age, Tophet remains ours. If anyone violates the agreement, Tophet remains ours.”

Crowley thinks about this, then leans forward to kiss his husband. “That might be best.”

Aziraphale nods and lays down. “I’ll have you agree to everything before we send it over to Lady Burningstone.”

Crowley nods, decisively, “And then we never have to see her again.”

“Just so,” Aziraphale agrees.

* * *

Some people will talk about how the infant Earl of Fellthrop was born in October, but not publicly scented until mid-February.

“Such a dark and cold month!” some might say over tea.

Their companions might shake their heads and offer another scone, “Yes, but those Jayanthony’s have done a number on their family. Surely we can overlook the delay in light of all that has happened!”

“Just so,” some might agree. “I suppose they should be glad to have the child presented at all!”

These are not people invited to such a celebration of course. The gathering is very well attended, but not by the general public. Lady and Omega Lord Device arrived from London, as did Admiral Witerbee and her new wife Lady Uriel. The Burningstones were absent, but Lady Blanc and her son Adam, escorted by her father Lord Chalky-Weiss were all present. Lord Beezlebub and their wife along with the Dowager Lady Fellthrop finished out their number.

The local village did turn out to see Lord Fellthrop exit his carriage and offer his hand to his Omega. Omega Lord Fellthrop is resplendent, some will comment. His husband beamed, they will report. A handsome couple indeed!

They’ll talk about sneaking into the church to see Omega Lord Crowley kneel before the altar holding his son. How he crawled on his knees, in supplication, as is the tradition, to his husband. How Lord Fellthrop removed his scent cuff and brushed pear-scented oil on both his mate’s brow and the baby’s. How the church applauded with joy. They will not, however, be privy to the celebration afterward.

Zionview Grove is a home for family, Crowley thinks as he looks around the dining room. Their guests are all seated and chatting pleasantly. Nanny Deirdre Young, lately returned from Tophet, breezes into the dining room to lift Samuel from Aziraphale’s arms.

“Come along, Lord Samuel, it’s time for your nap,” she says sweetly. “Give your Papa a kiss!”

Samuel giggles, delighted, and places his tiny hand onto Aziraphale’s cheek. It’s no kiss, but it’s a pure delight for them both.

“Enjoy time with Nanny, now, little one,” Azirapahle says, kissing his tiny fingers.

Samuel squeals with joy as Nanny carries him over to Crowley.

“And give Omba a kiss!” she says.

Samuel reaches for his Omba with a delighted shriek. Crowley takes him into his arms and rocks him just a little. The baby is so grown. He can sit in their laps and push up onto his arms and knees now. He babbles constantly and delights in spending time with Lord Dimples, the very abused wool doll.

Crowley kisses his head and sniffs the warm mix of his son smeared in his mate’s scent oil. It warms him. He kisses the baby again and holds him out to Nanny.

“Be good to Nanny Young. She was sweet to me,” he instructs the baby, as he often does.

Nanny smiles at him then takes Samuel out of the dining room with a hum. Arthur is puttering around Zionview Grove now too. Crowley has no idea what his new position is, but he seems pleased enough. He smiles at his husband, grateful yet again for his mate’s huge heart and desire to make people happy.

He tunes back into the people around him and their happy conversation. Luncheon proceeds well and, as it ends, Crowley gives a discreet nod to Shadwell.

The butler smiles and disappears into the butler’s pantry. Crowley lifts his spoon and taps it against his wine glass. Their party quiets. Aziraphale looks at him in surprise. Omegas do not usually give toasts.

“Thank you all for being here. It means a great deal to my husband and me. However, I would like to beg your pardon and allow me a few moments of selfishness.”

They all turn to him with degrees of amusement.

“We did not have the opportunity to celebrate any of the great joys in our marriage before today. In fact, many of you know how off-plan our first months together have been.”

Blanc and Uriel share a comforting look between them.

“Therefore, I ask your forgiveness in this indulgence.”

The door to the butler’s pantry opens and two footmen exit holding a two-tiered wedding cake. They bring it to the buffet table and set it there, grinning. Crowley stands and addresses his husband.

“Lord Fellthrop— _Aziraphale_ , you have made me the happiest man alive. I want to thank you for seeing past outside influences and taking me into your heart, even if it seemed like a terrible decision to everyone else. You have loved me and treasured me in the way that no one else in my life has. You are my best friend. I know we didn’t get a proper wedding or celebration as you wanted, but I hope this might give you an inkling of how much I love you and appreciate you.”

Aziraphale looks up at him from his chair with shining eyes. “Oh, you dear boy.”

He stands quickly and tugs his Omega to him. It’s improper to give such a kiss in public, but propriety is already out the window for their lives. He dips Crowley and kisses him heatedly. Crowley feels himself swoon. Once, set back on his feet, Aziraphale beams at him.

“My sweet, darling boy,” he whispers, kissing his cheek, “what a treasure you are.”

He leads his husband over to the cake and gives a delighted wiggle. “Oh, you’ve outdone yourself, Crowley, my dear.”

Crowley lifts the cake knife and offers it to his Alpha. Aziraphale curls his fingers around Crowley’s so they’re both holding it.

“Help me, won’t you?” he asks, breaking yet another custom.

Crowley nods, shyly and together they cut a slice of cake for them to share. Aziraphale selects a fork and cuts a small bite. Daintily, he offers it to his mate. Crowley eats it carefully, before taking the same fork and offering the same to his mate.

Once completed, the dining room erupts in applause. It might be unusual, but their friends and family seem willing to go along with it. The staff hurries to slice the cake and distribute it to each guest. Aziraphale takes Crowley by the waist and leads him away.

As they return to their seats, Aziraphale leans close to his mate’s ear, “Thank you, my darling, that was special.”

Crowley’s purr is soft but makes Azirapahle lean over and kiss him again. “I have a present for you too, actually. But it will have to wait until our guests have gone.”

Crowley chuckles, assuming that he’ll receive it in their nest. Some hours later, then, he’s surprised when Aziraphale takes his hand and guides him through the study and into the Pink Room.

Only, it will need a new name.

The walls are no longer a rosy hue, nor are many of the fabrics. The room is warm and welcoming with new books lining the shelf and a fire blazing in the hearth. Crowley walks into the room, letting his fingers touch the recovered couches. Anthony’s portrait stares down at him from one wall, but his face seems loving, not sad. The largest change, however, is the metal shelves that line the window. His desk has been moved to make room for it.

Plant plots, mostly empty, sit waiting for him on each row. Crowley walks closer and touches each in turn. He spins to face his mate.

“I wanted to give you a conservatory,” Aziraphale admits, fidgeting. “I simply could not make it happen, my dear. I hope this will suffice.”

“Suffice? Angel, you are so intelligent, but sometimes you are foolishly stupid. This is wonderful! Thank you,” he exclaims over his delighted purr. “Thank you, angel!”

He hurries over and throws his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. He gives him a long, sweet kiss that makes his Alpha hum with joy.

“Oh, you like it!” Aziraphale declares, surprised.

“How could I not?” Crowley asks, softly. “It was a gift from you.”

Aziraphale chuffs in return then kisses his forehead. “You must know, my darling, please tell me you know that I would do anything to make you happy. That I love you more than I can express.”

Crowley pulls off his sunglasses and tosses them onto the nearby chair. He takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands and stares into his eyes.

“If you asked me to choose between you and all the world, angel, I would not hesitate. I would let this all burn down to a pile of goo around me to keep you,” he whispers.

Aziraphale’s eyes are soft and his pear scent is dreamy around them. “Listen to yourself,” he teases, softly, “like an Omega hero from a novel.”

He kisses Crowley tenderly and pulls him close to his chest. “I would never make you choose, my darling. You deserve all the world.”

Crowley kisses him in return, “As long as you’re in it, angel, that’s all I want.”

Aziraphale leans back just enough to meet his eyes. “Then I suppose we should toast the world.”

Crowley purrs and presses his forehead to his husband’s. “I suppose we should.”

The End


End file.
